


(hold on) when you get love

by AugustaByron



Series: soulmates 'verse [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Multi, Polyamory, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a simple (although epic) defeat at flip cup turns into a soul bond, turns into friendship, maybe turns into something else. Whatever, Lardo can roll with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the only way to live it

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I have very little to say for myself. Please accept this as something that seems to have happened now, because I love the extras of Lardo and Kent hanging out at EpiKegster way too much for my own good. 
> 
> Warnings for: Ableist language from Kent Parson, Lardo reacting with due caution at being alone in a room with a guy she doesn't know that well (so a very brief anxiety about assault that is resolved within a few sentences, and nothing ever comes of it), recreational use of alcohol and marijuana. 
> 
> Title from Hold on When You Get Love and Let Go When You Give It by Stars.

So after Lardo absolutely demolishes Kent Parson at flip cup, he grins at her and holds out a hand in a very familiar pose. He wants to do a bro shake, the hand clasp/back slap thing that's Ransom and Holster's primary form of greeting. Lardo can totally roll with that. He's gracious in defeat, which is cool, because she definitely saw Nursey filming them on his phone during the game.

“That was awesome, dude,” Parson says, while the other members of his team sulk away, sore losers one and all. Maybe eight rounds was a little excessive, even though Parson held his own pretty well.

Lardo leans across the table and slaps her palm against Parson's, ready to wrap her fingers around his hand. And--

This has happened to Lardo once before, the first time that she actually brushed against Shitty's skin. A soulmark. But this time, the rush of warmth and the sting of healing happen on her left palm.

His eyes widen dramatically and he almost jerks away, but stills before he can complete the movement. Lardo's just holding his hand now, like this is a rom-com or something. Parson's hand is warm in hers, especially the middle of his palm. Right hand, dead center.

“Dude,” Lardo says, which is basically what she said when this happened with Shitty.

Parson laughs, and it's—nice. It's a nice sound, whatever. Lardo is not exactly out looking for her one true love via soulmark, but the guy has a nice laugh. And smile. He's smiling, now, right at her.

The whole thing is just very--well. Lardo definitely saw his ESPN Body issue photoshoot, is all she’s saying.

“What's your name?” Parson asks. “You said, earlier, but it's—” he gestures vaguely at the Haus with his free hand. “A lot of names, and dubstep.”

“Lardo,” Lardo says. “Well, holy shit, Kent Parson. Guess you're my soulmate.”

“Looks like it,” Parson says. He's progressing rapidly from beaming stupidly at her to shock, and Lardo cannot have that. This is EpiKegster, and if Parson ruins it by being a prima donna or something Shitty will be so upset.

“We have to commemorate your epic defeat at flip cup.” Lardo takes her hand back and resists the urge to look at her other one, where the soulmark is cooling, back to regular skin temperature. It doesn't sting anymore, just throbs gently in time with her heart.

It's weird right now, another pulse, but Lardo knows she'll get used to it. She's totally used to Shitty's, doesn't even notice it unless she's focusing.

“You can drink a lot for a tiny person,” Parson admits. “You want to do a selfie or what?” He's reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone, but Lardo has a way better idea.

“You got a pen?”

Parson, it turns out, has a mini-Sharpie on him. At all times. “It's just, you know, kids want autographs,” he says. It's attached to his keys. “And it sucks to be in the grocery store or whatever, playing laser tag, and not have something.”

Skipping over the information that Parson plays laser tag with some regularity, Lardo can see his point. He likes kids. That's cool. Kids can be cool.

It's possible that she's freaking out a little. She pulls down her Yeezy shades. Get it together, Lards.

“You want me to sign it, too?” Parson is squinting down at the piece of cardboard that has become their sign. “For like, authenticity?”

“Yeah, cool.” Lardo spots Ransom making his way over to Holster and two girls, cups of beer in hand, and snaps her fingers at him. “Rans! Shades!”

“Aw, man, these are already my spares,” Ransom says, but dutifully stoops down so she can pluck them off his face. His are light blue, the same cheap plastic as hers. “Why?”

“This one is going on the mantel, bro,” Parson says, seemingly without a shred of irony. He's holding out his hand for the sunglasses, and slides them on. He runs his hand through his hair, making his cowlick stick up even more, and smirks at her. Lardo's stomach squirms a little. He's not cool. He can't possibly be cool, even if he does look pretty sweet in those.

He flips his sign around and it's satisfactory. Lardo hands her phone to Ransom, who stores one of the Solo cups between his teeth to take it.

“Look badass,” Lardo tells Parson. “You're the second best flip cup player at Samwell University.”

“I'm going to make PR put that on my stats page,” Parson says, and holds up his sign for the picture.

 

“Pretend you have to piss and meet me in the first room at the top of the stairs,” Lardo tells Parson, once it's clear that there are way too many people clamoring for selfies for them to have a conversation. It's Shitty's room. He was in the bathroom muttering about tub juice until like twenty minutes into the party, so Lardo's pretty sure it won't be locked.

“Sounds good,” Parson tells her vaguely, already turning to smile for a camera, letting some girl wrap her arm around his waist. He hasn't taken off his shutter shades.

Lardo picks her way across the Haus and wiggles into Shitty's room mostly unseen. Not like it's weird for her to be in his room anyway. She sits down on the bed and inhales, tries to take comfort from the familiar smell of Shitty's expensive body wash and cheap weed. She takes off her shades and flops down on her stomach. It’s like extra moral support.

What the hell is she going to do? Lardo has a plan, okay, a plan with several steps. She's going to graduate, kick ass in the art scene around Boston or New York or Chicago, and get her shit together with her soulmate. Her first soulmate, fuck.

A bond to Kent Parson, best NHL player alive, is not really part of the plan.

There’s a quiet knock on the door and Parson slips in, minus his shades, hat literally in hand like all the clichés in the world rolled up in one. He shuts the door behind himself and lingers there. Lardo sits up, because he’s a hockey dude, and not one that she and Shitty have spent years training up, and a lot of people have weird ideas about soulmates.

Look, Parson may be tiny for a hockey player, but Lardo is just tiny in general. It’s due caution.

“Hey,” Parson says. He’s looking at her weirdly. Or maybe not weirdly. Lardo just doesn’t know his expressions. It’s strange to not know what he’s feeling when she’s got his mark on her hand, beating away, already becoming familiar.

“‘Sup, bro? You want to take a seat?” Lardo gestures to Shitty’s desk chair, and Parson takes the hint. Then she waits for him to make the first move.

Parson’s opener turns out to be, “What kind of a name is Lardo, anyway?”

“I spend all my time with hockey players,” Lardo says, and Parson nods, like, fair point. She snorts a laugh, feels some of the tension ease out of her body. Maybe he’s not a jackass after all. Lardo wasn’t there the first time Parson showed up, but Shitty told her the whole story. He doesn’t hate the guy. Even when he fights with Jack. That’s gotta be something.

“I’ve already got a soulmate,” Lardo says, since Parson went last time. It’s not like it’s unheard of, having two soulmates. But it’s not completely normal, either. Shitty would have the statistic at the tip of his tongue. Lardo just knows it’s considered very edgy by the art department. But so was the time Lardo cut off all her hair and did a semester in Nairobi.

“Me too,” Parson says. “Sort of. Where’s, uh, where is he? She?”

“Probably downstairs making tub juice,” Lardo says.

“No, I mean, uh, where’s his mark?” Parson rubs at his palm, where Lardo’s mark is. It’s too dark in Shitty’s room to see the color of it.

And, oh, boy. Lardo laughs and twists around on the bed so he can see her back and hikes up her shirt enough to reveal Shitty’s mark, a roiling knot of warm colors at the base of her spine, rich reds shot through with threads of gold and orange. “It looks better on him, his ass is bigger,” she says. “You know, all the squats.”

Parson doubles over in laughter. Lardo lets herself smirk, especially when he manages to choke out, “It’s a fucking tramp stamp! That is priceless!”

“Where’s yours?” Lardo asks. Parson sobers immediately, and looks away.

What did Shitty say about him? Doesn’t really talk a lot about himself, seemed cool with autographs. Didn’t stick around after Jack basically told him to get lost. And he didn’t mention the Cup at all.

So maybe he really is humble, or maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it. Tough shit, though, Lardo showed him hers.

“Is it on your actual ass?” she asks, and Parson loses some of the tragic face. He rolls his eyes and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Nah,” he says. “Just kind of an eyesore.”

Lardo flinches when she sees it. It’s the size of a fist, smack dab over his heart, and it is a horrible to look at. Lardo’s never seen a soulmark like that, black and deep violet, angry reds, like a bruise. Parson stares at her, like he knows what she’s thinking.

“Dude,” she says. “That’s--” Is that what her hand looks like? Is that just what Parson’s soulmarks turn out like?

“No, don’t worry,” Parson says, like he can read her mind. “Here, let me--” He fumbles for the lamp on Shitty’s desk, flicks it on. Lardo blinks in the sudden rush of light, but she can finally see her hand.

It’s nothing like the mark on Parson’s chest. Instead it’s a miniature storm, a galaxy of soft blues and greens, the shallowest parts of a tropical ocean. It’s only the size of a quarter. Shitty’s mark is bigger, the one on Parson’s chest dwarfing them both.

“What the hell happened there?” Lardo only realizes a second later that that’s probably personal as hell, which, obvs. Way to go, Lardo.

“Zimms nearly died and then didn’t talk to me for like four years.” Parson buttons his shirt back up, adds, “That’s on the DL, dude. No idea how nobody from Rimouski has managed to let it slip, but we’ve kept it under wraps since we were sixteen.”

“Got you,” Lardo says, and means it. “So, like. Is it dysfunctional, or what?” Soulmate dysfunction isn’t common, but it’s not impossible. Lardo’s never heard of someone with soulmate dysfunction getting another, reciprocated bond, but it must have happened before.

Parson’s laugh this time is ugly. “No, dude, the mark is fine. What, you’ve never seen him with his shirt off? The only dysfunctional one is Zimms, in like, his personality.”

And okay, Lardo is so not touching that one with a ten foot pole. “So what do you want to do? About us, I mean.” Is there a them? Lardo doesn’t really know the game, here. With Shitty it was easy, because they were already bros, and then he dragged her to cafeteria to talk about the gendered and deeply patriarchal expectations attached to soulmarks and the legitimacy of platonic bonds, so that was a hard limit set pretty much right away.

Even if lately it’s seemed like maybe Shitty’s wanted to revisit the boundary setting. Whatever, not like Lardo’s wasting away waiting for him. She’s totally prepared to talk about her deep and complicated feelings for Shitty’s mustachioed self whenever he feels like it. Until then, she’s doing great. Defending her title as beer pong champion, making cool ass sculptures, all that.

“I don’t know,” Parson says. “I mean, I came here to talk to Zimms. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Lardo murmurs, and Parson smiles at her. Not so tragic and bitter now, which is cool. Lardo doesn’t really have the stomach for drama.

“I’m pretty pumped, though. So, like, do you want to just figure out stuff? Play twenty questions, Skype, whatever.”

And that sounds strangely appealing. Lardo isn’t into dropping her entire life to make shit work with Parson, because, you know. She isn’t pathetic and lame. But his mark is on her left hand, swirling and pulsing, pretty as all hell, to be honest. There’s gotta be something there.

“Yeah,” Lardo says. “Yeah, gimme your phone.”

Parson hands it over and says, “I don’t want to mess shit up with you and your boyfriend, anyway--”

He’s cut off by the sound of footsteps in the hall. He goes still and rigid, like a hunting dog that’s caught a scent. Or maybe like the rabbit whose scent got caught. A second later, a door opens and shuts.

“That’s probably Jack’s room,” Lardo says. “If you wanted to talk to him--”

“Yeah,” Parson says, standing up. He moves to run his fingers through his hair and is stopped by his hat. He drags it off his head, clearly unthinking, and stares at the door to Shitty’s room like he could see Jack through the wood if he tried hard enough. “Do you--just stick your number--”

“Got it,” Lardo says, punching in the last few digits and handing the phone back over. Parson pockets it without even looking. “Go talk to Jack. I’m surprised he’s even still in the house, I thought he’d snuck out by now.”

“Yeah,” Parson says again. He drags his eyes away from the door to look at her. “Listen, I know I’m a total spazz right now, but I’m glad that I met you, okay? And I’ll call you.”

Then he’s gone, out the door and out of sight.

Lardo waits until she hears Jack’s door open, and the close again. Then she takes a deep breath, turns off the lamp, and leaves Shitty’s room. She’s easing the door closed when some rando comes lurching up the steps.

“Bathroom?” the guy asks. He looks green as hell.

“That way,” Lardo says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. The guy stumbles past her. On the stairs, she turns around to see Shitty’s door closing.

Well, that sucks. Maybe she should go find him.

 

Shitty’s on the deck, talking to Bitty. He looks just like he always does: jean vest open, no shirt, aka the least amount of clothing acceptable.

Lardo isn’t sure exactly how to broach the subject: hey, Kent Parson is my soulmate, you cool? Room for one more? Have you touched him ever, because a three way bond would be totally sick, and maybe simpler?

She settles on telling him the important part: she destroyed Parson’s ass at flip cup, and she will probably be a minor internet celebrity come morning. At least among hockey fans.

And that someone puked in his room again.

There’s time for the other stuff later.

 

Later turns out to be after Lardo has just finished defending her beer pong title with a little help from Holster, and Parson comes down the stairs with a face like he’s ready to fight a dude. Which is a total party foul, for one, and probably at least partially Jack’s fault, for two. Probably also partially Parson’s fault, Lardo knows, but like. The guy’s her soulmate. She’s kind of biased.

Also probably kind of drunk, since she’s had a cup of tub juice since he went upstairs.

“Parson!” Lardo hollers across the living room, and Parson looks up at her. He doesn’t exactly lose the scowl, but it softens a little. “Come over here and we’ll see if you’re number two at beer pong, too.”

“Number one all the way, baby,” Parson says, swaggering over, smirk firmly back in place.

“You’re about to get owned, Parse,” Ransom tells Parson, and claps him on the shoulder. “It’s been nice knowing you, buddy.”

“No way,” Lardo says, and hip checks Rans out of the way. “You and your other half get the other side. Parson and I are about to win this shit.”

“Uh,” Parson says, once they’re alone and Lardo is lining up her shot. His arms are crossed over his chest--over his heart, Lardo realizes--and he’s frowning a little again. Way too soon, in Lardo’s opinion. He’s at EpiKegster, his weird soulmate drama can wait. It’s time for fun. “I haven’t played this too much before.”

“Just think of it like a shootout, Parson,” Lardo tells him, and sinks her first shot. Ransom and Holster groan theatrically and clutch each other in despair. Lardo flips them the bird and is about to move into her victory/intimidation dance when Parson clears his throat.

“Parse,” Parson says, softly. Lardo looks at him. “You should call me Parse. Or, like, Parser.”

“Cool,” Lardo says. “Just think of it like a shootout, Parse.”

And then he smiles again. Lardo was totally right, earlier. He does look nice when he does that.

 

Shitty has aired out his room enough that Lardo agrees to sleep over and cuddle. Parse left a while ago, leaving behind his number, Instagram, and SnapChat; Jack never reemerged from his room; and Bitty looked hunted for the rest of the night. Lardo is not going to ask.

“Dude,” Lardo says once she’s spooning Shitty, her arms securely wrapped around his middle, his ass all up in her space. His hair is kind of in her mouth. She has to spit it out before she can talk again. “Kent Parson is my soulmate.”

“Like, your beer pong soulmate?” Shitty asks, half asleep.

“No, like my real soulmate. I’ve got his mark. He’s got mine.”

Lardo waits for Shitty to respond. She’s not nervous, exactly. Shitty’s not going to be a dickbag about it, she thinks. But she doesn’t want him to be hurt, or feel inadequate, or anything like that, either.

“That’s awesome, Lards,” Shitty says. Lardo relaxes, buries her face between his shoulderblades. “Dude, that’s great. Two for the price of one, huh?”

Lardo grins into Shitty’s skin. Two for the price of one.

 

Parse quickly reveals himself to be a giant loser.

He does this in three ways:

1\. SnapChatting her pictures of his cat, like, every day. Several times a day.

  
2\. Making a ton of terrible puns in his captions.

  
3\. Somehow, probably from Shitty like, stealing her phone while she slept, becoming bros with her other soulmate and then texting him all the fucking time.

“What do you guys even talk about?” Lardo asks. Shitty is texting Parse right now, while Lardo beats the shit out of some clay to get the air bubbles out.

“Hockey,” Shitty says. “And aliens, and shit. Parse is really into aliens. Why? What do you guys talk about?”

Kit Purrson, mostly, and Lardo’s art, and classes. He complained about his sister’s new boyfriend a lot over the holidays. Parse’s adventures in trying to learn to cook. How their days are going. The terrible pranks the rookies keep trying to pull. Normal shit.

“Just stuff, I guess,” Lardo says. “I don’t know. He was totally on my side for if he’d rather fight ants or a lion in an alley, by the way.”

“We never specified how many ants, is what I’m saying,” Shitty immediately argues. “Like, one ant? Sure, I’ll fight it. Seventy million ants? I’ll take my chances with the lion, I guess. But the ants seem like a safer bet, I’m sticking to it.”

“It doesn’t count if you add a bunch of conditions,” Lardo says for the thousandth time. “Plus ants are always the worst. You always think you’re free, and then bam. They’re all up on your picnic. Plus lions aren’t into eating people, usually.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good argument,” Shitty complains. “How do you know what lions are into, anyway?”

Parse is actually the one who knows way too much about lions, because apparently his love for Kit Purrson extends to all felines of the world. He mentioned something about wanting to be a vet if he wasn’t a hockey player, when he was little.

“Did you tell Jack that you’re buddies with Parson?” Lardo asks. She hasn’t told Jack that Parse is her soulmate for the simple reason that it’s not really his business, and the more complicated reason that she kind of feels sick when she thinks about the bruised soulmark on Parse’s chest. She knows that for Shitty, though, there isn’t really a separation of what’s Jack’s business and what’s Shitty’s. They’re pretty much one and the same.

“Nah.” Shitty leans back in his busted-up chair, the only kind available in the ceramics studio. It creaks threateningly at the movement. Shitty’s kind of too big to be near art department stuff. It seems like it was all made with people Lardo’s size in mind. But she likes having him here, the comfort of his voice, the pulse of his soulmark on her back. “Seemed like drama.”

“We’re probably going to have to let him know eventually.” Parse is surprisingly tight-lipped about the subject of Jack, Juniors, and what exactly happened to make his soulmark look like that. Not that Lardo’s asked, exactly. She’s just kind of casually brought Jack up a few times in case Parse needed a lead in. And she knows that there’s no way Parse is talking to Shitty every day and not hearing about Jack.

Just then, Lardo’s phone buzzes from her backpack. She’s kind of up to her elbows in fancy mud, so she jerks her chin at it. Shitty opens the text, reads it, and laughs.

“Kit fell asleep on top of Parser and now he’s stuck on his couch,” he relays. Lardo smirks down at her clay. Parse is a soft touch.

“He could just wake her up,” Lardo says. Shitty gasps and flails so dramatically he falls out of his chair.

“When are we going to meet this cat in person, dude? I’m pining over here,” he says from the floor.

Lardo shrugs. Parse has mentioned meeting up a few times, sent a few texts asking if she’s got a free weekend to come to a game. And lately he’s been texting about a free stretch of three days that’s coming up, only optional skates, all but offering to fly out to Samwell.

Look, Lardo is not necessarily prepared to give up her Chara jersey for a Parson one, even. And the texting and calls thing is going pretty well. Why complicate that?

“He seems like he’d be cool to hang out with,” Shitty says, too neutral. “I told him sucks to be you from you, by the way, about the Kit situation.”

Lardo kneads a piece of the clay between her fingers. The air bubbles are probably out. “Do you want him to come visit?”

“It’s not what I want, Lards,” Shitty says. “Your soulmate, your party. He just seems like a chill bro, is all. I’m not saying to bring him home to the ‘rents.”

The free period is from Monday to Wednesday. It’s not super convenient, timing wise, since Lardo has a big studio piece due in two weeks and class every day. But it’s not like she can’t send Parse and Shitty to hang out if she needs to get stuff done, and it would be cool to see him.

“He’s not staying with me,” Lardo says. “I don’t even want to see what the roomies would do with an NHL player.”

“Especially not a pretty one,” Shitty agrees. “Dude can get a hotel or something, he’s loaded. Excellent, bro, I’ll let him know.”

It’ll go fine. Lardo looks down at her palm. The mark stares back up at her, soft and blue and beautiful. Not like she doesn’t want to see Parse, after all.

 

Parse shows up in a Hummer, because of course he does. So much for laying low. Lardo rolls her eyes, and Shitty raises his eyebrows.

“What?” Parse demands. “It’s black! That’s subtle. And there’s snow and shit.” He’s wearing a sweatshirt, jeans that look expensive, and an Aces cap, despite the fact that’s it’s the middle of goddamn February. His watch catches the sun whenever he moves. His parka is hilarious.

“Maybe lose the hat,” Shitty suggests.

“You’re in Bruins territory,” Lardo adds.

Parse shudders. “No way, José. I’ve got limits. Now, lead me on to college life! I am prepared for Ramen noodles and all nighters.”

It is seven thirty in the morning. Lardo exchanges a look with Shitty, who grins and nods.

“Annie’s,” Lardo says. “Let’s go, Parson, coffee time.”

Parse looks increasingly squirrely as they trek across campus, which Lardo can’t really figure out until Shitty says in an undertone, “He’s already done with his run, bro. Definitely back at the Haus to get ready for class.”

Parse snorts. “It’s the crack of dawn, he’s such a freak.” But his shoulders loosen, and he starts to tell them about the plane ride, something about sitting next to a showgirl. By the time they’re at Annie’s, he’s moved past, “Way athletic, man, I’m telling you,” to, “I’m totally going to make the boys take the class she teaches, they need to work on flexibility. Probably good for bonding, too.”

Lardo would pay cash money to see the Las Vegas Aces take a pole dancing class in the name of team unity. But before that, she would gladly sell her soul for a cup of coffee the size of her face.

“I want something with caramel,” Shitty says. Lardo concurs. He gets her. “Parser?”

“Go find some seats,” Parse says, waving them off. Not at all surprisingly, he joins them with two enormous caramel mochas and a black coffee for himself, and pretends not to see Shitty’s attempt to give him five bucks. “So what’s on the agenda for today, folks?”

Lardo has class in two hours, and then studio time reserved until the late afternoon. Shitty, on the other hand, has nothing after practice.

“We’re going to cuddle and watch Netflix,” Shitty says. “And I have dibs on being the big spoon, because Lardo never lets me.”

Parse’s laugh is free and easy, and Lardo lets go of some anxiety she hadn’t realized she had. They’re getting along. Which she kind of saw coming, since they’re buds over text, but it’s cool to see that Parse can fit here. Sort of. He doesn’t look like a student, and he showed up in a fucking Hummer like some kind of midlife crisis asshole, but he seems down for cuddling with Shits, which is super necessary to be part of Lardo’s life.

Not that Parse has even said he wants to be part of her life. But he did show up.

Lardo splits after coffee and leaves Parse in Shitty’s hands. It doesn’t occur to her until like four hours later, while she’s in the studio working on her sculpture, that she has no idea where this spooning is going to take place. Shitty didn’t take Lardo’s keys, so they can’t be in her house, and unless they’re back at Parse’s hotel--

She calls Shitty to confirm. “Please tell me you didn’t take Parse back to the Haus.”

“‘Sup, Lards, how was your day? Class good?” Shitty’s voice is rough, like she woke him from a nap. “Nah, we’re at the B&B in town. I’ll text you the name.” There’s a muffled noise on the other end, and then Shitty asks, “Do you want Parse to pick you up?”

“No, I’ll walk,” Lardo says. Another muffled noise, and Shitty laughs.

“The desert has made him weak. See you in a while, dude.”

The B&B is charming the way only family-owned businesses in small towns in Massachusetts can be. Lardo is directed to Parse’s room by a kind old lady with graying red hair. There are small statues of cats on shelves in the hallway.

“Hey,” Shitty says when she knocks on the door. “‘S’unlocked.”

Shitty is indeed the big spoon, Parse nestled against him. The TV is on, something with explosions happening on the screen.

Lardo kicks off her boots and dumps her backpack. “Scoot your asses, boys,” she says, and climbs over their legs to get behind Shitty.

“Your boyfriend gives good cuddle,” Parse says. “Better watch out, I’m in the market for one of my own.”

That pings something, some memory. Lardo remembers the first night she met Parse, you and your boyfriend. Which maybe she should have remembered before now. Huh.

“Lardo and I aren’t together,” Shitty says. “Well, no, we’re totally together, in that we’re soulmates and totally kickass, but we’re not dating.”

“Huh,” Parse says. Lardo waits. Her mark throbs, a rush of warmth. But Parse just says, “Turn it up, dude, this is the best part.”

Why the hell are they watching Transformers? “Bro,” Lardo says, and feels Shitty shrug.

“It’s got some interesting gender shit,” Shitty says. “Plus Megan Fox is okay now. I checked.”

“Dude,” Parse says again, and Lardo shuts up and watches the movie. Her soulmarks beat in time.

 

Parse takes them out to dinner on Wednesday night. “We’re playing on Valentine’s Day, because, you know. Hearts and Aces. Cards.”

Lardo had forgotten that Valentine’s Day was even coming up. “I’m getting steak,” she says, since they’re in Samwell’s fanciest restaurant. It’s where Jack comes with his parents when they visit.

“Dude, who isn’t,” Parse says. “It’s the best fate for a cow. Wine?”

“Not twenty one,” Lardo reminds him. Parse blinks at her. “My birthday isn’t for another month.”

“Birthday,” Parse says. “Shit. My sister’s birthday is in like a week.”

He totally forgot to get her something, didn’t he? Lardo laughs at him, and Parse flaps his hand at her, yeah yeah.

“Time for rush shipping, bro.” Shitty, unlike the two of them, is perusing the menu. “Do you think they have good potatoes? I am feeling some potatoey goodness right now.”

“I’m just gonna do the shopping spree thing again. Tell her to go hog wild and send me the bill.” Parse flicks open the menu. “They’ve got loaded mashed potatoes, Alicia said they were the bomb. I say go for it and prepare for me to steal some.”

“You can’t just get her a shopping spree, dude,” Shitty says. “That shows like, no level of thought. Fucking cop out.”

Parse shrugs, and Lardo’s hand chills. What the fuck? She looks down at her left hand, where the mark is--darker? It’s going steely blue instead of periwinkle. That’s never happened before.

“Shits,” Lardo says. “Maybe she likes to shop.”

“I’m just saying it’s impersonal. Doesn’t matter how expensive a gift is if anyone could have gotten it for her. You can’t just throw money at stuff.” Shitty looks up, finally, and sees that Lardo is staring at him. “Are you mad, bro? Because my ass is on fire over here.”

“Okay, that’s my cue,” Parse says. “Don’t feel like getting in the middle of your domestic argument, here. I will be at the bar for exactly ten minutes.” He tosses his napkin across his plate and beats a hasty retreat.

“What?” Shitty asks, and Lardo shakes her head at him.

“Sometimes you’re such a rich kid, you know?” She gets up and follows Parse to the bar.

He’s attempting to catch the bartender’s eye, leaning against the dark, polished wood of the bar. Everything in this place is classy. Lardo’s wearing her classiest dress. Parse fits here a lot like Lardo does: he knows how to behave in a place where a steak costs fifty bucks, and he’s dressed nice. He’s got his blinged out watch on, and for once he’s not wearing plaid, instead rocking out pale green pinstripes. His shoulders look broad, and his eyes look bright. Lardo has been casually objectifying him since he pulled up to the Haus to pick her and Shitty up.

Shitty, though, is wearing his usual outfit: jeans, shirt with too many buttons undone, hair loose and barely brushed. He doesn’t care about looking nice in a place like this because he’s used to them. He went to Andover, for fuck’s sake.

“I bought her a pony when I got my first million,” Parse says. He’s not looking at her. “Like, a legit horse, with riding lessons and everything. She always liked horses when she was little, but we could basically afford my hockey and a roof over our heads. When I was first hanging out with Zimms--” he shakes his head. “Day and night, bro.”

“Does your sister like to shop?” What’s her name again? Kelly. “I mean, will Kelly be into the present? Because fuck Shitty if she would.”

“Yeah, she always tells me not to bother getting her clothes or anything because I have bad taste.” Parse glances up and down the bar, but the nearest person is three seats down, not paying any attention to them. “She picked out this shirt. I made her look at like three options over Skype while I was packing.”

That’s a lot, right there. Lardo isn’t sure exactly what her move is here.

“I wanted to impress you, I guess,” Parse says. He’s talking to the bar, head down. “Cause you’re like, smart and cool. And super out of my league. I know it’s kind of sleazy, since I thought you had a boyfriend until two days ago.”

Parse hasn’t behaved any differently since he found out she and Shitty aren’t dating. He split his time between her and Shits pretty easily, and hung out in his hotel when they were both busy. It’s been chill. Actually, it’s meshed in a way that Lardo didn’t really think was possible, until it happened.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Lardo says. Her heart is beating too fast. She controls her breathing. Be cool, Lards. It’s just Parse. She looks at him, and his stupid cowlick is right there where it always is. She relaxes: it really is just Parse. He’s already on her hand, it’s not like she can really fuck this up too bad. “And there’s kind of a guarantee from the universe that I’m not out of your league, dude.”

Parse laughs, just a little, and smiles at her. Lardo’s struck, suddenly, by how young he looks. And like, he’s older than her, but he’s only twenty four. That’s Jack’s age, and Lardo rarely thinks of him as being a real adult. Mostly because he turns into a middle school girl when he’s around Bitty.

“I don’t want to be your girlfriend,” Lardo says. There’s no point in not being clear. “At least, not right now, if ever. But you’re mine, dude, and you’re kind of awesome, so stop being self deprecating and come watch Shitty try to apologize for his privilege.”

“That doesn’t sound fun.” Parse wrinkles his nose. “What if we just eat half a cow and then go get drunk at my hotel, instead?”

“Yeah, that’s better.” Lardo grabs Parse’s hand and winds their fingers together, so their soulmarks are touching. Parse makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “Come on, Parson. You’re paying.”

 

Lardo hangs up the phone and doesn't bother to hold in her sigh. She takes a few deep breaths like Judy's always telling her to, and also counts to ten for good measure.

Then, she makes the call.

“Hey, what's up?” Parse sounds a little out of breath, like maybe she interrupted him during his workout. Well, tough. She got interrupted from her perfectly pleasant lunch by a call from financial aid, like that wasn't terrifying. And then, in quick order, exasperating.

“Bro,” Lardo says. “Did you pay off my tuition?”

She can hear him being shifty on the other end of the line: clearing his throat, a dull thunk like he had to put down something heavy. Why the hell is he answering the phone while holding free weights? She needs soulmates who aren’t hockey players.

And then Parse says, “I mean. Is there an answer that isn't going to get me in trouble? Because it sounds like I'm in trouble.”

“Dude.” Lardo tries to inject as much disbelief as possible into those four letters. “Seriously.”

“Well, I didn't know it was going to piss you off!” Parse says. He's not shifty anymore, at least. More like panicky. Is this was panicky sounds like on him? Lardo's not sure. “It was supposed to be for your birthday!”

“How did you even get them to accept the check? How did you know how much to make it out for?” Lardo has far more questions than that, namely, what was he thinking, and how can he act normal most of the time and then go do shit like this, but these are more pressing.

“I may have called the office pretending to be your dad to find out the balance,” Parse says. “And then I just sent the check with a note on the memo line.”

Lardo prays for patience and exhales slowly. “You can't just do that, Parse. That is not an acceptable birthday present. First off because pretending you're my dad is creepy as hell.”

Parse sputters for a second before he concedes, “Fair. But seriously, how did you even find out this fast? I just sent it a few days ago. How fast does the mail even go?”

“They called me when it got to the office because it looked super weird that some dude was paying all my outstanding bills. I told them that it was a mistake.”

And hadn't that been fun, Lardo thinks, with a twinge of annoyance. There was a brief instant, a split second, where she almost told them yes. That's right. Kent Parson paid everything, put it on through. And then her brain came back online.

“Why?” Parse asks. Lardo can hear his frown now, and the mark on her palm pulses. She glances down at it, worried, but it's still the same swirl of blues and greens, almost pearly. “I mean, seriously, it was a present. I was going to send a card, too, but I forgot.”

“You can send a card. You can even send a present. But you can't pay for an entire year of my tuition. You can't just throw money at stuff, Parse.” And then Lardo's stomach drops like she just took the first plunge on a rollercoaster, and the storm on her palm darkens to stormy, steely blues.

“You said it was okay to get my sister a shopping spree. That you got that I don't care about the money, I'm not trying to—show off or whatever. It's just money. It’s something you need, and I can take care of it.”

Parse doesn't sound like anything Lardo understands, now, nothing she's heard him be before. Confused, maybe. This mark on her hand doesn't actually make it easier to know him, just tells her that there's something about him that calls to part of her, something that she should be able to recognize.

But he's too far away, and texts and Skype aren't the same as real time with him. She's lost. This was easier when he was in front of her. Hell, this was easier with Shitty.

“I don't want to have to pay you back for anything. The stuff with your sister is family. With us it's—” There's probably a way to say it that isn't horrible. Bitty would probably be able to find it, or maybe Shitty, or even her angsty art friends. But Lardo can only come up with, “It's not the same.”

“Okay,” Parse says, too bro, too lackadaisical. Way too easy for how he sounded fifteen seconds ago, but the swirling blues are lightening again, back to sky and turquoise. Lardo resists the urge to rub the mark. “Message received, Lardo. I won't do it again. So what do you want for your birthday anyway? I need a hint or something.”

Lardo chews on her lip and thinks. He's her soulmate. She can figure this out by thinking about herself, because they’re supposed to be part of a whole. So what would she want if he asked her this? What is she going to get him for his birthday? She doesn't even really know what he likes other than hockey and his cat.

She'd want a game plan.

“Paintbrushes,” Lardo says. She needs new ones, and if he wants to buy her something, that's fine. “And booze.”

Parse barks a laugh, sudden and startled and pleased. “Paintbrushes and booze, I can do that. I'll cancel the check. Do you like funny birthday cards or sentimental ones?”

“Surprise me,” Lardo says.

 

The card is a glitter-covered monstrosity designed for a little girl's second birthday. There are pink butterflies. Next to the giant 2 on the front, Parse has written a miniscule 1 in his ubiquitous Sharpie. The package is also wrapped in paper with pink butterflies on it.

Lardo fucking loves pink butterflies, so she doesn't even care if Parse was trying to be a little shit. She tears into it with relish, grinning at the ripping noise, and then has to stop and stare.

“You squeaked,” Shitty says. He's staring up at the ceiling, laying on his bed in his boxers. He just finished smoking a bowl. He rolls onto his side and asks, “Why'd you squeak?”

Lardo pulls out the first set of Rosemary and Co. sable brushes. It's marked on the front of the box for watercolors. There's another for oils, and a third for acrylics.

They're handmade. Lardo knows from the hours she's spent on the website, coveting.

“Nice,” Shitty says, and lays back down. “Those from Parser? You were just saying you need new brushes.”

Lardo fingers the logo on the box and doesn't tell Shitty that these brushes cost a fortune, that just a set of four is more than she could ever afford. Parse must have looked around, too. He must have researched paint brushes.

“He forgot the booze,” she tells Shitty instead. He grunts in acknowledgement.

“What's in the card?”

Lardo opens the card and stares again.

“Bro, what?” Shitty says after a minute has gone by. “Did Parse blow your mind with like, a poem, or something?”

Lardo pulls the two plane tickets to Las Vegas out of the card. “Looks like we're going on vacation, Shitty.”


	2. take the weakest thing in you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes the boys approximately four seconds to notice the mark on Kent's palm. (Or: Kent Parson versus Feelings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings for: descriptions of drug overdose, unkind thoughts/words regarding addiction and substance abuse.

It takes the boys approximately four seconds to notice the mark on Kent's palm. He's hungover and grumpy in the hotel, the morning after EpiKegster, battling the waffle maker at breakfast, when one of the rookies spies his hand. 

“Parse,” says Hally. “Parser, what the fuck!” 

The outburst attracts the attention of all the nearby Aces. That includes, Kent notes, stomach dropping, Garbo. Garbo frowns at him, which is basically like being frowned at by a mountain. Kent knows somehow that at least half of that is because Garbo must have found out about Kent making Bern let him in after curfew last night. The man has his ways. 

Most of the time Kent loves having Garbo around. But sometimes it’s clear that Garbo has not forgotten the idiot eighteen year old who lived in his guest room for a year, way back when Kent first got drafted. He carefully avoids the goalie’s eyes. 

“That’s a soulmark!” Hally continues, oblivious. Kent opens the waffle maker and pries his breakfast out with a fork. He should probably be eating eggs, but fuck it. He’s earned some carbs after the debacle with Zimms. 

“Holy shit, Parser, who got landed with your ugly mug?” Koves asks when Kent sits down. Garbo surveys him from beneath massive eyebrows, and Kent takes a bite of his waffle to avoid answering for a second. They don’t have real maple syrup here, which kind of sucks. Kent may or may not pay way too much money to have the legit stuff shipped from Toronto. That’s what happens when you spend your formative years in ice rinks. 

The thing is, Kent is pretty sure that there’s an informal orientation to the Aces which includes “don’t ask about the captain’s ugly ass soulmark.” He always sees Koves and Lundy, the As, take rookies and call-ups aside within the first few days they’re in Vegas, and nobody’s bothered him about it since his own rookie year. 

But a new mark, one that's blue and green and fucking normal looking: that’s gotta be fair game. 

“Her name’s Larissa,” Kent says when he can’t stall any longer. He doesn’t want any of them tracking Lardo down on Facebook. 

“You meet her last night?” Koves asks. “Hookup turned soulmate, eh?” 

“More importantly: is she hot?” Bern leans across the table, puts his elbows practically in his plate like a savage. Kent swears the rookies get younger every year. Or maybe he’s old and boring now. 

Is she hot. Kent thinks about Lardo’s smirk as she crushed dudes twice her size at beer pong, the way her eyebrows went way up when some frat boy called her a chick, how she didn’t even have to talk to put him in his place. Hot doesn’t really seem like a strong enough adjective. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Garbo says sharply. “Leave Captain America alone.” He takes a pointed bite of his bacon, and the boys shut the fuck up. Kent nods gratefully and receives an unblinking gaze in return. Shit. Garbo’s totally coming for his ass later. 

And sure enough, Garbo muscles Lundy out of the way on the plane to get the seat next to Kent. He doesn’t say anything throughout takeoff, but Kent knows better than to put in his earbuds or open his book. As soon as they’re at cruising altitude, Garbo clears his throat. 

“You disappeared last night, and this morning I find out that Bernard had to let you in the hotel at three in the morning. Then you come back with a soulmark.” 

As always, Garbo prefers to state facts and wait for Kent to break than to actually ask questions. As always, it takes basically no time at all. Kent is a wuss, he knows this. He owns this. 

“I went to Samwell,” he says, and watches Garbo’s expression change not at all. At least there’s nobody else on the team who’s probably figured out shit with him and Zimms. Again, Kent was not at his best during his first year with the Aces. A lot more woe is me. “I met a girl. We marked each other.” 

“Is she your girlfriend now?” Garbo seems totally unconcerned, which means absolutely nothing. He seems like that all the time. “Because if I recall, you have your own issues with marks.” 

“We’re just talking,” Kent says. Lardo as his girlfriend. Fuck. She’s already got a guy, though, Zimms’ new best friend. Which Kent is not bitter about, because he’s not a thirteen year old girl. It’s good that Zimms can function normally in society or whatever, that he’s king of the liberal arts hockey team, whatever that means. “She’s got another mark.” 

Garbo looks at him for a second, then nods. Kent relaxes into his seat. Interrogation over, point for Parson. He puts on his earbuds and doesn’t think at all for the rest of the flight. 

 

Lardo is an artist, and a trash talker, and can’t skate. Kent is only surprised about that last one. Her other soulmate, Shitty, is a stoner and talks about a lot of shit that Kent has to Google, but also has totally ridiculous ideas about space civilizations, so it’s cool.

Kent is playing fucking great, has two people who haven’t banned him from sending videos of Kit all the time, and the mark on his hand is still pale and happy. He’s speeding towards another Art Ross, which is fucking awesome. So basically, it’s all good in the neighborhood. 

And then it turns out that Lardo and Shitty are cool with him being around, and, like, hugs and shit. Cuddling. Kent’s never really cuddled so much, and it’s nice, okay? He and Zimms are more of a handjob-in-the-bathroom, I-gave-you-CPR, you-didn’t-show-up-on-my-Cup-Day bond, so the cuddling is a major step up, all told. 

Kent’s dick is slightly confused by the whole thing, not least because he’s about eighty-five percent gay--a four on the Kinsey scale, according to Shitty--and so it’s kind of a new normal to think about Lardo’s collarbone and hands and lips and stuff. Not in a dirty way. 

Well, mostly not in a dirty way, Kent’s only human. But he tries not to jerk off thinking about his soulmate, because that is probably not cool, when she’s already involved and totally happy, as far as he can tell. The few times he’s broken down and done it anyway he felt like shit. 

But then it turns out Lardo doesn’t have a boyfriend. And Kent isn’t sure what to do, exactly. 

“You could ask her out,” Kelly says. She sounds kind of bored by the whole thing, which is fair, since Kent’s been calling her to whine just about every day since the big reveal. “You know, like people do when they have giant embarrassing crushes.” 

Kent rubs his chest. Zimms’ mark on him was pink and red, like a blush, before. They got chirped for it a lot in Rimouski, like having pink marks was girly or some shit. Gay, like that was such a shock. The day Kent got kicked out of the hospital by Bad Bob, who at least seemed apologetic as hell about it the whole time, it started to darken. 

Look, Kent has a Stanley Cup ring, a Calder, and an NHL team that he’s captain of. His cat’s Instagram has like twenty thousand followers. He’s not sitting around moping about Jack Zimmermann, but it would suck to have the mark on his hand bruise up the same way. It would suck worse not to be able to call Lardo anymore, to have her basically tell him to leave and never come back if he dares to show up at her shitty college house. 

“Uh huh,” Kent says. “Look, do you think I should take them to the casino or what? Because I think that Madonna has a show here right now, we could do that.” 

“I still think it’s weird that you bought two tickets,” Kelly says. “I mean, isn’t she your soulmate? Why’d you invite Shitty, too?” 

And Kent has no good response to that, other than they’re Lardo-and-Shitty to him, the same way that it’s Bad-Bob-and-Alicia, or Garbo-and-Beth. He didn’t even really think before he booked two first class tickets. 

“He’s good people,” Kent says. “And he wants to meet Kit.” 

Kelly makes a grumpy noise. Her grudge against Samwell Hockey is deep and abiding, like Kent needs his kid sister to fight his battles for him. There’s not even a battle, is the thing, Kent thinks. Just a bunch of history. 

“You need to talk using words,” Kelly says. “Sometime this weekend for sure. Preferably before you do something dumb.” 

“Thanks, Kell,” Kent says. “Seriously, that means so much, you’re kind as well as wise.” 

“Shut up,” Kelly says. “I’m worried about you, dofus. And don’t wear that hat, it doesn’t actually make you look cool.” And then she hangs up on him, because she’s rude. 

Whatever, Kent is definitely wearing the hat. It does make him look cool. 

 

“Brah,” Shitty says, the second he’s within earshot. “How the hell do you play hockey here? There’s air conditioning on in March.” 

“Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada,” Kent says. “Do you guys have bags or anything?” 

“It’s two nights, Parse,” Lardo says. “We didn’t need to check anything.” 

“Oh. Okay.” Kent’s fingers twitch towards Lardo’s carry on, but he knows that she’d punch him if he tried to carry it for her. He settles for taking Shitty’s bag, because all Shitty does is look inordinately pleased. 

“See, some people know how to treat a gentleman,” Shitty says. Lardo rolls her eyes and nudges him with her shoulder, and fuck, Kent is in way over his head here. Kelly was right, he’s an idiot. Garbo is going to be so pissed at him. 

Well, he’s definitely not going to freak out in the middle of McCarran’s domestic arrivals terminal. “Did you guys want to go to the hotel? I’ve got reservations at the Bellagio.” 

Lardo just looks at him. “Dude,” she says. “We’re staying at your place.” 

His hand throbs a little, but Kent manages to just grin at her. “Awesome,” he says. “Me and Kit love sleepovers. We can braid each other’s hair.” 

The Porsche is right where Kent left it in short-term parking, thank god. He’s never sure if he’s going to get towed or not, and he had to wander around a little bit because he forgot the gate number. 

Shitty whistles, low and impressed, and says, “Nice ride, Parser.” 

Kent shrugs, feeling the back of his neck heat up. He bought it the last time he got a contract bump, after the Cup. It felt like a declaration at the time: Kent V. Parson, here to stay, here to kick ass. 

“So there’s a Cirque du Soleil show tonight, if you guys wanted to go to that. I got you a couple of tickets just in case,” Kent says, as they’re driving to his place, Shitty in the back with the bags and Lardo riding shotgun. 

It feels right, somehow, like home, even though they’ve never been here before. It can’t be this easy, is the thing. Kent knows that marks aren’t a guarantee. 

“Or we could go to, hmm, what was it again?” Shitty says. “Lards, what was it we wanted to do?” 

“I hear that the Aces are playing a home game tonight,” Lardo says, dry as the desert outside. “If only we knew someone who could get us tickets to that. Well, damn it, guess we’ll have to watch it on TV.” 

“It’s your birthday present, I didn’t want to assume,” Kent starts, but shuts up when Lardo flicks him on the arm. 

“Don’t be a dickhead, Parson,” she tells him. “When are we going to get primo seats like this again?” 

“Well, you could, uh,” Kent thinks about how much Garbo is going to kill him anyway, and the chirping that Lundy will unleash. There’s basically no turning back now. “Sit in the family box? They’ve got snacks and stuff.” 

“Sold,” Lardo says instantly. “What? I like snacks.” 

“Cool,” Kent says, and resolves to examine his feelings later, when he isn’t also trying to navigate traffic. 

When they get to his apartment, Kit comes to investigate her new subjects, and Kent feels his body sink into his pregame routine. He’s automatically heading for the kitchen before he remembers to ask, “Do you guys want anything?” 

“Ate on the plane,” Shitty says. Lardo is ignoring them both to pet Kit’s belly. “Does your cat think she’s a dog?” 

“That’s their thing. Maine coons. They’re friendly as shit.” Kent shrugs and pulls grilled chicken out of the fridge. “Their other thing is basically being a lynx disguised as a house pet, but she’s kind of small. The vet thinks she was malnourished as a kitten.” 

So Kent eats his lunch and firmly tells his dick to tone it down when Shitty flops onto the couch and moans like a porn star. Kent’s couch is awesome, yeah, but that seems excessive. Lardo has moved from stealing Kit’s affections to standing on the balcony, staring out at the city. 

He’s not sure how to broach the subject of really needing to nap before the game, just kind of stutters and waves a hand towards his bedroom. 

“‘Swawesome, bro,” Shitty says. “Lardo! We’re napping!” 

And then Kent is still not sure what’s going on, only that he’s dozing off sandwiched between Lardo and Shitty, who grumbled but agreed to be the little spoon. He’s warm and kind of buzzing, his soulmark beating slow and sleepy, Lardo nuzzling into his neck from behind. 

The last time Kent took his pregame nap with someone, it was before the last game of the Memorial Cup tourney, and it was more like him finally pinning Zimms to a bed and refusing to let him get up until they both passed out in exhaustion. Zimms had been awake for like a day and a half, running around, Kent’s soulmark pounding wildly the whole time. 

In retrospect, it was the drugs. Kent gets that now. 

“Go to sleep, Parse,” Lardo says, muzzy and close. “We’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Kent goes to sleep. 

 

It’s a chippy game against the Schooners, who are taking advantage of the fact that Garbo’s still shaking off some flu he caught from one of his kids. He lets in two, which is way more than usual against a shit team, but it’s cool. Kent gets a goal and an assist, then a goal to win it in overtime. Boom, one more for the books. 

And if he’s playing faster than usual, feeling Lardo’s mark on him simmer all through the game, that’s just a bonus. Plus Lundy’s on fire, putting the puck right on his tape every time he turns around, and the D was on point the whole damn game. It’s especially cool because Hally played more minutes than usual tonight, and he’s really coming along. 

That’s what he tells the media, who let him clear out and shower in a reasonable amount of time, since he’s not giving them anything but the usual soundbites. Whatever, Kent’s got a great team, what’s he going to do? Not brag about them all the time? 

Garbo corners him as soon as he’s out of the shower like a giant freak. “Why does my wife tell me that you have two people up with the WAGs tonight?”

“Because Beth is a gossip,” Kent says. “Can I put on my pants before we do this, please?”

“No,” Garbo says, but he lets Kent shove past him to his stall. “This is the girl, then? Larissa?” 

“Lardo,” Kent says. If Beth’s already got to them, it’s way too late. “And her soulmate, Shitty.” 

“Her other soulmate,” Garbo says, voice level. Kent winces. Oh shit. He’s going to wind up finding self esteem pamphlets in his bag tomorrow. “Well, they are coming out with the team. It’ll be nice to get to know them.” 

“You’re still sick,” Kent says, grasping at straws. “You should go home and rest.”

Garbo looms at him, eyes glinting, seven thousand feet tall and as wide as a tree. How can this man do the splits, Kent wonders, not for the first time. “Are you saying I played a subpar game, Captain?” 

“No!” Kent yelps, because there’s crazy and then there’s goalies, and he knows how to pick his battles. “Fuck, fine, one bar.” 

“We won tonight,” Garbo says. “We should celebrate.” 

Kent’s heart sinks into his gut. 

“Koves!” Garbo bellows. “Assemble the rookies! We’re going out!” 

And that is how Kent finds himself in the back of a minivan Uber with Garbo, Lundy, Shitty, and Lardo. Koves is up front next to the driver, yelling in goddamn Russian like he’s having the time of his life. 

“The boys are meeting us at the club,” Lundy says. 

“I thought we were going to a bar,” Kent says. He agreed to a bar, goddammit. 

“We are,” Lundy agrees. “We are going to the club after the bar.” 

“Uh,” Lardo says, looking down at herself. She’s wearing a black tee shirt, jeans, and one of Kent’s Aces caps. She looks fantastic. Kent is actually having trouble looking at her for more than a few seconds at a time, because he can’t remember what he was saying. “I’m not exactly dressed for a Las Vegas club.” 

“No problem,” Lundy says. “We’ll go to my house first. You’re about my girlfriend’s size, and she wants to come anyway.” 

“We could just get our own cab back from the bar,” Kent offers, frantic. Garbo shakes his head minutely, and Kent deflates. 

At least the bar is their usual, a place on the Strip that is used to feeding the Aces after a game. Kent applies himself to his steak and listens to Lardo talk about her Junior Show, and then to Shitty describe some kind of hellish drinking game he’s invented. 

Lardo is apparently the reigning champ. 

“Dude,” Shitty says to him in an undertone, while Lardo and Koves race to see who can chug a pint faster. “Are you okay? Because we can just go back to your place, no problem.” 

Lardo slams her empty glass down two seconds before Koves, and lets out a triumphant “ha!” of laughter. 

“Hurry up, Parson,” she says. “I want to drink an NHL team under the table, I need access to all the frogs.” 

“Yeah, it’s cool,” Kent says. He’s not going to ruin Lardo and Shitty’s trip by being a weird loser. He likes clubs. There’s dancing and lights, which are basically the best things about Vegas. He drinks the rest of his beer. “You better have liquor at your house, Lunderman.” 

“Bro, it’s like you haven’t even met me,” Lundy says. 

“I like her,” Garbo says when they’re back in a cab. Two cabs, actually, since Lundy kidnapped Lardo and Shitty. Koves is texting his girlfriend and ignoring them, which Garbo seems to think equals privacy. “I didn’t think I would, since you don’t talk about her. But I do.” 

Kent rubs his chest. “She’s out of my league, dude, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

“Your league,” Garbo says. “She’s your soulmate, Kent.” 

“Yeah, well,” Kent says. “So Anna’s feeling better? She got to go back to school?” 

Garbo looks at him, flinty, but eventually says, “Yes, much better. She wants you to come over and play ball hockey soon.” 

“Just name the date,” Kent says, relieved. This is why Garbo’s his dude, weird parental instincts or not. He knows when to drop shit. 

Lundy does have liquor, thank god. Kent unearths a bottle of decent vodka while Lardo is with Lundy’s girlfriend Mia, getting changed or whatever. How long can it take to put on a dress? Shitty headed off to borrow a better shirt from Lundy’s closest and came back like three minutes later. Dresses can’t be that much harder. 

“Brah,” Shitty says, at his elbow. Lundy’s shirt fits him pretty well, but Shitty’s already unbuttoned it way too far, displaying his chest. Kent pointedly does not look. There’s creeping and then there’s creeping. “Maybe chill a little, we aren’t even there yet.” 

Shitty’s eyeing him like maybe he should be concerned, and Kent bristles a little. He’s not Zimms, okay, he can handle himself without going overboard. 

“You’re being a little weird,” Shitty says. He puts a hand on Kent’s shoulder. “It’s strange when you’re fucking quiet, okay?” 

And just like that, the bubble of anger or panic or whatever that’s been forming in Kent’s throat pops and dissipates. “I’ll stop until we get there if you want. You want some water, Shits?” 

That’s when Mia clears her throat loudly. “Gentlemen, Koves.” (“Hey,” Koves says, injured.) “We’re doing a She’s All That thing, here, so pay attention.” 

Lardo steps out from behind her, and holy fucking shit. She’s wearing one of Mia’s dresses, which is short and shiny and black. Her hair is messed up like she just rolled out of bed, and there’s some kind of smoky stuff around her eyes, making them look about a thousand times bigger. Her lips are bright red. 

“I’m going to need another shot,” Shitty says, hoarse. Kent is with him there. 

“Okay, boys,” Lardo says. She crosses over to the kitchen, and she’s even wearing some of Mia’s shoes, so she clicks when she walks. “I just had a professional stylist do my makeup, so we’re going to need a picture to commemorate this, because I will never look this good again.” 

Kent laughs. “Doubt that,” he says, but passes his phone over to Mia, who winks at him. Lardo is on his left, Shitty on his right. Lardo throws up deuces at the camera, and Kent’s not sure what his face is doing. Hopefully something better than dumb shock. 

“Insta that,” Shitty says. Mia hands Kent’s phone to Lardo, so at least it’s obvious who’s the brains of the operation around here. That’s cool. Kent was Zimms’ A, being Lardo’s whatever is probably just as awesome. Plus Lardo seems way less likely to go off the deep end and leave Kent to his own devices, so that’s a bonus. 

“C’mon,” Lardo says, when she’s done tapping at the phone. “Time to make good on the second half of my birthday present, Parson.” 

 

The club is, well, a club. It’s loud and noisy, but Lundy or Koves or whoever called ahead and made sure they’d be in the VIP section. Kent does his duty as captain and buys the first round of shots, plus some fruity pink cocktails for Lardo and Shitty. 

“I know you’re jealous,” Shitty says, slurping it down. He devoured the swizzle stick of maraschino cherries immediately. “It’s okay, bask in your masculinity. I’ll be over here with all the deliciousness.” 

“The nutritionist would hunt me down and kill me if I drank those all night,” Kent says. He is kind of jealous. Shitty plays NCAA hockey, and here he is with an NHL team, drinking cosmos like it’s nothing. “Do you know how much sugar’s in those things?” 

“Enough to make them taste like God’s tears,” Lardo says. She’s already downed hers, making up for lost time. “Now, go get me and Koves a bunch of shots, I’m going to make him cry like a small child.” 

Shitty comes with Kent to the bar, winding their way through the pulsating mass of bodies. The music is pounding hard, down to Kent’s bones. He should dance. Maybe Lardo would dance with him, when she’s done ruining Koves’ reputation. 

“You looked like someone hit you with a two by four when you saw Lardo,” Shitty says when they’ve reached the bar. He has to lean right next to Kent’s ear to be heard over the music. His mustache tickles. Kent wonders how it would feel on--

Nope. That way lies only madness. 

“Who wouldn’t?” Kent saw Shitty’s face, too. Even if they’re not dating yet, he knows what inevitability looks like. 

“You know she likes you, right?” Shitty asks. “I mean, I know that Jack messed you up, but Lardo isn’t going anywhere. She wants you around.” 

And that--isn’t cool, what the fuck? Kent pulls out his AmEx Black and flashes it at the bartender, even though he’s already got a tab open. Fuck, why are there so many people here? He needs to get the damn shots and get the fuck out of the conversation. 

“Kent,” Shitty says. He wraps his arm around Kent’s shoulders and squeezes. And fuck, Kent is not used to feeling small, even though he’s arguably a midget compared to most of his team. But Shitty is warm and solid at his side. “There’s no pressure, okay? But you should ask her. She’s going to say yes.”

“What about you?” Kent blurts out. Fuck, that was a mistake. Shitty’s arm loosens, and Kent steps out from underneath it. “I mean, when are you going to ask her? Because she’s nuts about you, bro.” 

That is absolutely not what Kent meant, but it’s not his worst recovery ever. He glances up at Shitty to see if he’s buying it. To his relief, Shitty looks considering. 

“I think we all need to talk,” Shitty says. “Like, negotiation style, bro, this is getting a little fucked in the boundaries department. But let’s wait until we get back to your place, it’s fucking loud in here.” 

Great. A boundaries discussion when they get back to Kent’s. He rubs his chest where his mark aches, a little, like lowkey heartburn. 

“Hey,” Shitty says. He knocks Kent with his elbow. “Nobody’s ducking out on you, Parser. It’s all puppies and roses, I fucking swear.” 

Kent tries to smile, finds that it feels normal. “‘Swawesome,” he tries, and is rewarded by Shitty beaming at him. 

A fucking eternity later, what is wrong with this place, Kent and Shitty finally make their way back to the table with the shots. Shitty stoops down to murmur something in Lardo’s ear, and her eyes widen a little. She looks at Kent, who tries to look normal. Nothing to see here, folks. Lardo rolls her eyes at him. 

“Koves!” she says. Koves looks up from his phone, ready to go. “I apparently have to be sober by the time I get back to Parse’s, so you have to regain your honor another time.” 

“There’s practice in the morning anyway,” Koves says, looking relieved. Kent can relate. Drinking contests with Lardo are a lot like getting run over by a huge D man with a grudge.

“I will, however,” Lardo says, planting her elbow on the table, “let you attempt to get back some of your rep by arm wrestling.” 

“He’s going down, bro,” Shitty mutters to Kent. “Want to bet on it?” 

Against Lardo? “Not on your fucking life.” 

 

“I do have jetlag,” Lardo announces when they’re back at Kent’s apartment. She kicks off Mia’s heels and groans in relief. “And Parse has to go to practice in the A.M., so let’s do this thing.” 

“Food and pajamas first,” Shitty says. “Do you have munchies, Parse?” 

“Tater tots in the freezer.” Kent keeps them for when Kelly visits. “Fifteen minutes?” 

“Break,” Shitty agrees, and they split up. It takes twenty minutes, but soon enough they’re all assembled on Kent’s couch, eating tater tots and wearing sweats.

Lardo took off her makeup and stole one of Kent’s shirts. Shitty’s got his hair up in a bun. Kent feels that this is cheating, somehow, on their parts. He’s supposed to be able to think, right?

“Okay, bros,” Shitty says. Kit is curled up on his lap, and he’s got one hand buried in her fur, stroking lightly. He has nice hands, Kent notes, swallowing. Long fingers. “Do we need a talking conch?” 

“No, Shitty, for fuck’s sake,” Lardo says. 

“Okay, then I’ll go first,” Shitty says. “Lardo, you’re my soulmate, and while I don’t think that marks necessarily mean everyone has to follow social scripts and force themselves into romantic relationships, I want to spend forever with you. Even if it’s heteronormative of us. You know that, right?” 

“Yeah,” Lardo says, but she looks a little stunned. “That’s--’swawesome, dude.” 

“In a way where we also bone,” Shitty continues. “And kiss and stuff. So basically what we were already doing but with kissing and boning.” 

“Stop saying bone,” Kent protests, but Lardo is smiling bright and pleased, so he shuts up. 

“Shitty,” she says, and Shitty just nods at her, solemn. 

“Cards on the table,” he continues. “Parse, dude, I also think that we should upgrade. To sex stuff. And romance stuff.” 

Kent chokes on his tater tot. “Wha--what?” he says through a throatful of potato. “Are you serious?” 

“Yeah, dude,” Shitty says. “I’m like a two on the Kinsey scale, but you’re definitely within the incidentally homosexual range, if you get what I mean.” 

Kent takes a minute to decode that. “What you’re saying is that you think I’m hot.” 

“Also a cool dude.” Shitty shrugs, like this isn’t a big deal at all, like Kent’s heart isn’t beating so fast he thinks it might burst out of his chest. “So now it’s someone else’s turn to talk. Lards?” 

Lardo looks down for a second, and Kent’s breath stops. If this has freaked her out, if she says she only wants Shitty and not him--he’ll be okay. Shitty said they’re not going anywhere. Worst case scenario, they go back to how it was this morning, which was already kind of the greatest thing ever. 

The greatest thing since him and Zimms imploded, anyway, he thinks, flashing back on that last summer, that month and change where everything was perfect. 

“You’re both mine,” Lardo says. “And I don’t think it’s platonic. Not that there’s anything wrong with platonic bonds, but--I don’t think I have one with either of you.” 

“Cool,” Shitty says, still calm as a cucumber. “Parse? What do you want?” 

He licks his lips, wills moisture back into his mouth. “I want whatever you’ll give me,” he says. 

Shitty frowns. “Okay, we’ll work on articulating things, but for now you can just answer questions, if that’s better. Do you want to be our boyfriend?” 

Be our boyfriend. Like it’s simple. Kent tries to say something, can’t, has to just nod. Be their boyfriend. Lardo and Shitty’s boyfriend. 

“Cool,” Shitty says, and Kent exhales. “Lardo, cool with you?” 

“More than cool,” Lardo says. She smiles at them, and Kent’s hand heats up, like he’s holding the fucking sun. “Fucking sweet, dudes.” 

“So what now?” Kent asks. “Do we?” Do they go to his room? Is that too soon? How do people date without already being ass over end in love, like he was with Zimms? 

“Um.” Lardo blushes, pink spreading over her nose, and Kent wants to look at her forever. Look at her, play hockey, pet his cat, make fun of Shitty’s mustache. That’s it, that would be good. 

“It’s the third week of the month, dude,” Shitty says. “Not a good time, ya feel?”

Lardo gives Shitty a flat look. She could give Garbo a run for his money. “You memorized my menstrual cycle?”

And Kent cracks up, because of course. “How about we just go to sleep,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Lardo says. She slips her hand into his, wraps her other arm around Shitty to rest her fingertips on his ass, where Shitty’s tramp stamp of a soulmark is. What passes for sweet and romantic for the three of them, Kent guesses. It’s pretty cool, anyway. “That would be good.” 

 

His alarm rings at ass o’clock in the morning, which makes Lardo groan and kick aimlessly. Shitty says, “This is offensive, bro,” into his pillow. Even Kit meows unhappily. Kent wiggles out from underneath Lardo’s arm and Shitty’s entire torso and grapples for his phone on the nightstand. 

It’s not his alarm, Kent realizes, brain coming back online. Someone’s calling him. 

“Kill it,” Lardo grouses. “Kill it with fire.” 

Kent hits answer to shut it up and creeps out of his bedroom. He might as well make coffee, since he has to be up in an hour anyway. “Hello?” 

“What the fuck are you doing,” Zimms says. Kent nearly drops the phone. He sits down heavily on a barstool, leans on his counter for support. “Kent, what the hell is going on with you and Lardo?” 

How did he find out? Kent is pretty sure Shitty didn’t text anyone after their talk, and unless he did in his sleep or something--

“What are you talking about?” It’s better to play dumb with Zimms sometimes, let him reveal as much as he wants. Kent used to do that when they were drinking, back in Juniors. That was the only time Zimms talked about his dad, or the draft, or anything. 

Of course, it must not have really worked, because Kent was still surprised as fuck to find Zimms passed out on the bathroom floor, covered in puke, not breathing. 

“What am I talking about?” Zimms is breathing hard, the way he always did when he was pissed at Kent. “You’re soulmates, Parse, what do you think I’m talking about?” 

Which, okay. Kent is not sure how Zimms found out, or why he’s pissed, or why he apparently thinks Kent is up to something. “Did she tell you?” 

“No, I saw the pictures,” Zimms says. He sounds more like a robot, now. Back to business as usual. “It’s on Deadspin. They haven’t figured out who she is, yet, but there are pictures of your hand and her hand and the two of you together.” 

Well, fuck. Kent doesn’t mind, really, but he didn’t ask Lardo or Shitty how they feel about media attention. The picture from last night, he realizes. Before they went out. Lardo held up her left hand. And there’s been speculation about him already, people noticing the new mark in postgame interviews and stuff. PR’s had a hell of a time dodging questions. 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Kent says. “We met at your party.” 

“And you just decided to date her,” Zimms says. “To what, fuck with me?” 

Kent takes a deep breath. The mark on his chest hurts, not like heartburn. Like a sprain, a bad check. Something that says: nope. This one’s an injury, Parson, get your ass to the doctor before you step back out on the ice. 

“She’s my soulmate,” he says. “It’s not about you, Jack.” 

Zimms just breathes at him for a minute. Then he says, “If you run out on her, so help me.” 

Which, wait. What the fuck? 

“When the fuck did I ever run out on you?”

“You just kept going,” Zimms says, no more robot voice now, thank fuck. But this is probably worse, Kent thinks. This is what it sounded like when Zimms would get drunk and talk about how even though he was going first, he’d never be as good a player as his dad. That he’d make his team regret taking him. “You kept going without me, and you did just fucking fine. You got everything you ever wanted.” 

“I never wanted to do it without you,” Kent says. Maybe yells. Whatever. Zimms doesn’t have the fucking right. “You’re the one who self destructed and then shut me out of your life like none of it mattered! And you’re fine now. You fucked up and you’re still getting the NHL.” 

“I didn’t see you trying to get back in touch with me, either!” Zimms yells back. “Not until you proved you never needed me, eh?” 

Kent counts backwards from ten. And no, this isn’t some Notebook I-wrote-you-every-day-for-a-year shit. Alicia picked up one of his calls, about three months in, right before he left a voicemail, maybe the six hundredth, whatever, and said please, Kent, could you stop? The doctors say Jack needs to separate his past from his present to make a full recovery. The mark was already shrinking, then, consolidating, darkening. So it’s not like Kent couldn’t read the writing on the wall. 

He stayed away until way later, nearly the end of his first season. He played Montreal, lost terribly, and Bad Bob came up to him after, casual as anything, and started talking about how Jack was doing better, Jack was coaching peewee, Jack was on making amends in his twelve step program and was Kent’s number the same? 

And so what if he’s tried since then? It clearly wasn’t when Zimms needed it. Kent should have ignored Alicia, maybe. But then, what if the therapists were right and Zimms wouldn’t even be around to yell at him if he hadn’t stepped back? What if what Zimms needed to get better was for Kent to be gone?

Kent likes to win, but even he knows that there’s a point when the other team’s up by three and their goalie’s looking for a shutout. Try as hard as you want, but this isn’t your game. 

“What color’s your mark?” Kent asks Zimms, because he’s been curious for years, in an idle way. Is it written on Zimms’ skin, the way that Kent is still pathetic about him? Or was Zimms enough to turn both marks? 

“What?” The change in topic throws Zimms, Kent guesses, because he’s back to robot mode. “What are you talking about?” 

“Your mark. My mark on you. What does it look like?” Does it look the way it did out by the lake, when Zimms used to run his fingers through Kent’s hair and shit, like they were going to last forever? Last another fucking month?

“You know what it looks like, Kenny,” Zimms says. “It’s pink and huge.” 

Right. Okay. 

“Mine looks like a fucking bruise,” Kent says. He hangs up, then, because there’s nowhere else to go with this. Zimms can go fuck himself. So he wanted Kent to need him that bad, to not be able to do anything without him? Zimms got himself a whole fucking life, a team, a degree, without so much as looking Kent’s way. 

Kit jumps up on the counter, then, and headbutts him. She purrs, and Kent scratches under her chin. “Good girl,” he says. "You're the best."

“Hey.” Lardo’s voice is sleep rough. Kent turns to look at her, and she’s in the doorway to his room, leaning against the jamb. “Come back to bed, okay? Shitty’s hilarious when he’s waking up.” 

And that--kind of sounds like the best invitation Kent’s gotten in a minute, here. At least since last night. Be our boyfriend. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and follows Lardo back to bed. 

 

He puts them on a plane late on Sunday afternoon. It’s been maybe the best weekend Kent’s ever spent in Vegas. Shitty’s mustache does tickle when he kisses Kent, and Lardo is grabby. It’s fucking excellent, even if everyone’s pants stayed on. 

“I haven’t done the boyfriend thing since I was eighteen,” he warns them outside security. “So I might fuck it up. And by might, I mean probably. I will probably fuck it up.” 

“Dude,” Lardo says. “You’re already pretty kickass at it. Just don’t be dumb as fuck. Talk to one of us when you’re feeling feelings.” 

“Negotiation!” Shitty says. “It’s key, bro. Also scheduling. I read up.” 

“Text me when you land,” Kent says. It’s what his mom says every time he gets on a plane, and it’s nice, okay? He likes the reminder that someone’s watching the news for reports about plane crashes, hoping he’s safe. 

“Will do,” Lardo says. “Tell Kit goodbye from me, and that I can’t wait until I steal her and she can be mine.” 

“Hands off the cat, Duan,” Kent says. “A man has to have a line.” 

He carries the memory of her laughter back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you all for the response, it was way more than I expected. Next up: Shitty Knight, graduation, and summer.


	3. so you can let go when you give it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shitty blinks and it’s April. There’s hockey and playoffs, and deciding on a law school, and Lardo and Kent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you may have noticed that the rating is higher. 
> 
> Warnings for: Buzzed sex. All parties explicitly consent prior to and throughout. Recreational use of alcohol.

It’s not like Shitty isn’t expecting a confrontation of sorts when he gets back to the Haus, after the way some fucker put pics of Lardo and Parse up on Deadspin for all the world to see. His mom, for instance, called and seemed kind of worried about it. Like Shitty wasn’t in the picture, too. She seemed pretty happy that Shitty has not only convinced Lardo to date him, but also bagged Kent Parson. 

“He seems like a nice young man,” his mom says. “I looked him up. Did you know he has a charity that helps kids from needy families pay for hockey equipment?” 

Shitty totally did not know that, but color him shocked. Parser is a big ol’ softie. 

So the real concern is probably Jack. Shitty loves Jack, don’t get him wrong, but the guy is acting like an entire bag of dicks about this whole thing. Kent wouldn’t really talk about what Jack said the other day, but it’s not like Shitty didn’t hear the yelling. 

Ransom and Holster, though, are the ones who kind of pounce the second Shitty walks in the Haus. 

“Dude,” Holtzy says. He’s sitting on the couch in his boxers, which is exactly what Shitty wants to be doing, fuck. Plane rides tire him the fuck out. “Dude!” 

“You hung out with Kent Parson,” Rans says. “For like an entire weekend!” 

Shitty shrugs. This is doable. What the hell did he think would happen, that Jack would be waiting at the door to throw Shitty off the team or something? “He’s Lardo’s other soulmate. It was a good time.” 

Shitty thinks that this might be a good time to tell them about dating Lardo. But they didn’t really talk about that on the plane or anything, so he should probably check first. Telling Rans and Holster is kind of a guarantee that the whole team will know by morning. 

“Bitty made you a welcome home pie,” Holster says. “He ninjaed it away when I tried to get a piece earlier, so you better go slice it up. And then share.” 

Bitty is a fucking treasure. That is a fundamental truth, possibly of human existence. Shitty dumps his bag on the floor and goes into the kitchen. Sure enough, there’s a fresh pie steaming on the table, smelling like wonder and Christmas and all good things. Shitty inhales deeply. 

“Oh!” Bitty says. He’s washing dishes at the sink. “Shitty! I didn’t hear you come in. There’s a blackberry pie there on the table. It’s, um. For you?” 

And okay, Bitty is acting shifty. Shitty pulls his attention away from the pie to ask, “What’s up, bro?” 

“Well,” Bitty says. He colors up along the nose a little. “Jack’s a little upset, I guess. I don’t want to meddle!” 

From basically anyone on the team, except maybe Nursey, that would be a blatant fucking lie. Hockey players are, by and large, the biggest meddlers in the world. Shitty thinks it’s pretty on the level here, though. Bitty’s kind of golden, in like, his soul. 

“Jack’s got his own issues with Parse,” Shitty agrees, which is kind of an understatement. The thing is, he’s seen Jack’s chest. The soulmark there is pink, light and delicate. Jack blushes a darker color when Shitty talks about sex. But it’s enormous, sprawling across his whole left pec and spilling over his sternum. It doesn’t look like the mess on Parse’s chest. “But it’s not really his business how Lardo handles her relationship with her soulmate.” 

“Oh,” Bitty says. “I suppose--the thing is, he kind of thought maybe you--” 

Ah. That would explain why Jack is being a raging shitmonster, which has to be the case for Bitty to classify Jack as “a little upset, I guess.” 

“Nah,” Shitty says. No soulmark between him and Parse. “Not that I’m not going there, bro. You’ve seen his ESPN shoot, right?” 

Bitty turns bright fucking red, and Shitty has to laugh a little. Bits is a fucking precious creature.

“So you two are? Both--?” 

Shitty takes pity on him and says, “Yeah, we’re both dating him. Keep that under your hat, though, Bits. I don’t know if Lardo wants everyone knowing.”

“I’d never!” Bitty gasps, putting a hand to his chest like a swooning maiden. Shitty cracks up. “Now, Mr. Knight, do you want a plate or are you just going to stick a fork right in that pie?” 

And yeah, it’s good to be home. Shitty’s life is kind of awesome. 

 

The thing about spring semester is that it goes fucking fast. Shitty blinks and it’s April. There’s hockey and playoffs, and deciding on a law school, and Lardo and Kent. 

Sometimes those last things collide, which is kind of unexpected. Shitty’s kind of an East Coast guy, through no fault of his own, but deciding between Harvard and Columbia and Cornell and U Penn now has the added factor of drive time to Samwell. 

“Uh,” Kent says, when they’re Skyping and Shitty asks for his opinion. That’s something he’s trying to do more, make Parse actually state what he wants. It was really fucking fun that day they were all in Las Vegas, pulling “please, more,” and “I like it when you rub your mustache on my neck” out of him. 

Which, score for the ‘stache. Shitty’s been saying it for fucking years. 

“It’s not the end all be all, dude.” Shitty’s leaning towards Harvard, is the thing, even though part of him instinctively rebels against that. The grandparents are offering to foot most of the bill if he caves and just follows the family tradition, which is nothing to sneeze at. “Just asking for a general vibe. You aren’t planning to get traded to the Rangers anytime soon, right? Because that would be a factor for Columbia.” 

“No, man,” Kent says. “I’ve got like one year left until I’m an unrestricted free agent, and I was basically planning to stay here. I mean, I’m the captain. I like my apartment.” 

“So you don’t want a vote,” Shitty says. Lardo is also refusing to vote, on the grounds that she doesn’t think Shitty should make big decisions with their relationship in mind.

“Because I’m sure as fuck not going to pass up things just because it means we’ll have to be long distance for a while. Nut up, Shits,” she’d said, actually, and that was so hot that Shitty had to stop making pro and con lists to kiss her for an hour. 

“No, man, it’s just--my family kind of lives in Ithaca?” Kent scratches the back of his neck, like he’s embarrassed about it. Shitty takes a second. His Wikipedia creeping led him to different information. 

“I thought you were from Plattsburgh?” 

“Yeah, well, our house was pretty crappy and my mom can kind of work anywhere,” Kent says. “So, like, Kelly picked a place out by throwing a dart at a map. Isn’t Harvard near Samwell?” 

“Yep,” Shitty says. He scratches his playoff beard. It’s coming in nicely, but totally distracting from the overall grooviness of the ‘stache. Kent’s playoff beard promises to be terrible, judging from the pictures Shitty dug up from years past. He can’t fucking wait. “Are you skinnier?” 

“Are you my mom?” Kent snaps, then deflates. “Fuck, dude, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking tired. I had to be at the rink to watch game tape at like five in the morning.”

The Aces clinched their spot in the playoffs a while ago, and they’re battling it out to see who gets home rink advantage in the first round. Parse has been looking a little ragged already. At least he says that management is going to rest him for the last few games of the season. 

“You should go the fuck to sleep,” Shitty says. He barely has time to think, between practice and roadies and schoolwork, not to mention frequent Lardo breaks. It’s gotta be worse for Parse. “Take care of yourself, dude, it’s important.” 

Kent smirks a little. “Aw, are you worried about me? That’s sweet, Shitty.” 

Shitty takes a deep breath and reminds himself about how Parse can be weirdly sweet, and most of the time not an asshole. And he clearly worships Lardo as a goddess, as it should be. It’s not his fault he was raised by hockey teams. Jack can also be a douche in unexpected ways. 

“You’re my boyfriend,” Shitty says. “So get some sleep, yeah, you motherfucker?” 

“Yeah,” Parse says, all soft and humbled and shit. “Okay. You too, Shitty. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, cool?” 

Once he’s hung up, Shitty sighs deeply. This relationship stuff is hard sometimes, fuck. With Lardo he’s got years behind them, and the mark to help him out when the going gets particularly rough. With Parser it’s--complicated. 

“Okay,” Lardo says, bursting into his room fifteen seconds after he and Parse hung up. “I’ve got a half hour before the campus transportation people call me back about getting the bus cleaned before our next roadie, we can either make out or watch an episode of Trailer Park Boys.” 

“Priorities, Lards,” Shitty says, and opens Netflix. 

 

Jack drags Shitty out for a run way too early in the morning. Shitty brought this upon himself by falling asleep in Jack’s bed. He knows this. There is a price to pay for friendship snuggles. But it’s still awful and totally unnecessary, especially since the coaches are running them ragged at practice every day.

Shitty goes, duh, because Jack’s his best friend and has been kind of weird lately, since the soulmate news broke. Shitty is still not sure if they actually talked about how Shitty is dating both Lardo and Kent. 

It’s possible that Jack was actually talking about the bond between D men and goalie during that whole conversation. It just seemed imbued with subtext of some sort. 

“So,” Jack says, when they’re jogging to cool down, winding their way back to the Haus. Shitty is not out of shape, okay, but there is a difference between fit and Jack Zimmermann. Meaning Shitty is focusing on breathing while Jack has apparently decided to have an emotional chat. “I talked to Kent.” 

And that’s kind of unexpected, because Shitty feels like Parse would have mentioned if Jack called him. But it’s also not really Shitty’s business. They’re still working on all their fidelity agreements. So far, Shitty has explicitly gotten Kent to state that he doesn’t want to sleep with other people, and he’d like to introduce Lardo as his girlfriend if the subject comes up. 

Lardo got bored with all the long talks about three days in, since, as she said, “Whatever, man, I’m going to be the cool art chick with two muscular dudes at my beck and call.” All around, it’s been pretty fantastic. 

But right, Kent never said he wasn’t going to try to patch shit up with Jack. Shitty’s not sure he’d even want Parse to try that. 

“Cool,” Shitty says, staying neutral. “You okay, brah?” 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “He just said, uh.” And then he stops talking, just stalls out. Shitty puzzles it out. He’s pretty good at translating Jack-ese into English, but this one’s got him stumped. 

“Key words, dude,” Shitty says. “A prompt.” 

“His mark,” Jack says. “I know--if he’s dating Lardo, and you’re dating Lardo, did he tell you--?” 

So maybe Shitty only got some of his points across during that other talk. Maybe they should have used generic defense pairings, instead of Nursey and Dex plus Chowder. That’s probably confusing. 

“So, like, brother, there’s been a misunderstanding,” Shitty says, because it’s important that Jack knows where he’s coming from, here. This is not a convo they should have under false pretenses. “I’m also dating Parse.” 

“You’re dating Parse. Both of you are dating Parse.” Jack has stopped moving, what the fuck. He’s standing on the path, off to the side, just looking at Shitty. That is--not good, actually. Shitty’s tuned out a lot of lectures about cooling down properly and muscle strain over the years. 

“Yup,” Shitty says. “It’s going, you know, pretty well.” 

He watches Jack’s eyes, because that’s how to tell if he’s having a moment here. Like, a real one, with anxiety and needing to be coached through his calming breathing exercises. But Jack’s just staring intently, not actually looking all that wild. So it’s cool. Middling cool. 

“Did he talk to you about his mark?” Jack asks, finally. Shitty knows that he doesn’t mean Lardo’s mark, the one on Kent’s hand. Shitty scratches at his face under his beard. How to phrase this? 

“He doesn’t really talk about it,” Shitty says. Jack is his best friend, and Jack has had significant troubles, okay? Shitty’s not about to just be on Kent’s side all the time. But Jack can be an absolute dick about Parse, that’s not in question, even if he’s basically the greatest the vast majority of the time. “But I know that it’s yours.” 

Jack addresses the ground instead of Shitty for the next question. “He, uh. He said it looks like a bruise.” 

So maybe not a question. Shitty weighs this shit. Lardo is kind of protective of Parse, is the thing, so maybe Shitty shouldn’t go exposing his business to Jack without asking first. Plus, if Parse doesn’t like to talk about it, there’s probably a damn good reason. 

But, Shitty reminds himself, who the hell could stand to talk past all that history?

“Yeah, man. It’s like, this big--” He holds up a clenched fist, and sees that Jack’s eyes do go a little wild, shit. “And it’s really dark purple. Black in a lot of places. Bits of red and green. Like he took a puck to the spot.” 

Jack stands for a second. Then he says, “We should keep going. Stopping like this is a good way to cramp, eh?” He begins jogging again, towards the Haus. 

“I think I fucked up,” Shitty says to nobody. Then he gets his ass in gear. 

 

See, Shitty’s got a lot of theories about soulmarks. They come up a lot in gender studies, because there’s so many meanings prescribed to them based on different cultural norms, nearly all of them hella wound up in the patriarchy. In the Middle East, anything on the left hand is seen as a cursed mark, a warning. In the U.S., a mark on the left ring finger means true love. That’s what people in romcoms get when they finally touch in the last scene. 

He and Lardo have an unusual placement. In addition to being hilarious, it’s also directly over the root chakra. Shitty’s not religious, but if he and Lardo observed certain strains of Hinduism, their marks would be very good luck. 

There’s no chakra in the palm of the hand, and definitely not in the dominant hand depending on the person. But Shitty knows a thing or two, just on his own, about Lardo and about hockey. 

Lardo uses her hands all the time, to paint, to sculpt. They’re how she approaches the world, Shitty figures. And Parse is known for his hands, his stickhandling. It’s gotta be something, that they’re both marked there. Shitty’s not sure exactly what. But something good. 

And as much as Lardo doesn’t want him to balance her against his other choices, it’s kind of a no brainer. 

Shitty tells Harvard to count him in. Class of 2018, that’s him. 

He’s feeling pretty rosy with the world, especially when he gets back to the Haus and goes to his room, only to find Lardo sitting on his bed. Her shirt is off and her laptop is open in front of her. She’s blushing furiously, but her chin is up, her eyes are flashing confidently. On the screen, Kent looks like someone told him that not only will he be given the Stanley Cup ahead of schedule, he’s got dibs for the rest of his life. 

Shitty kicks the door shut. Some things are not meant for the eyes of wandering frogs, and this is definitely one of them. 

“Hey, girlfriend,” he says. Lardo looks over at him and smirks. She definitely picked that particular expression up from Parse. Dirty pool. Shitty would like to lodge a complaint. He needs his remaining braincells, here. He unbuttons his pants. “Hey, boyfriend.” 

“Hey yourself,” Lardo says. “Already stripping, I see.” 

“Bro,” Shitty says, “this is my natural state. I enter my bedroom, the pants come off.” 

“Well take them off quicker and get over here,” Parse says. Shitty looks closer at the screen, and yep, his professional athlete boyfriend is shirtless.  
It’s an excellent fucking day. 

 

The thing is, it’s impossible for Shitty to separate Lardo from hockey from this, the moment when Jack nets the final goal of a hat trick in the last game of the Frozen Four. The horn blows, Bitty crashes into the both of them for a celly, the clock ticks down the last second and--

“We fucking did it, you motherfucking beauty!” Shitty screams into Jack’s ear. Jack is laughing, his arm slung around Shitty, his other side wide open. Bitty’s there, then, followed by Dex and Nursey, and then the whole fucking team is piling onto the ice, and they’re hugging Chowder, that fucking gorgeous kid, gorgeous fucking goalie. 

Shitty’s mark is fucking hot, the way it was at Lardo’s Junior Show, when she found out that someone bought her giant painting for over the asking price. The way it is when they get breakfast together on Sundays, and she looks up at him and tells him, no, dude, that is not the best part of Star Wars, he’s clearly an idiot. 

What Shitty’s saying is that he’s one with the universe right now. Like he’s slotted into the perfect place at the perfect time. 

After, it’s a whirl. Jack goes and buys all the champagne in the liquor store, and the coaches meaningfully go to bed with the doors shut, so they can ignore the underage drinking. The boys are coming in and out of different rooms, but the main party is at Jack and Shitty’s, and Lardo is right there with them, drinking a Solo cup full of expensive champagne like it’s her due. 

God, Shitty fucking loves her. He should probably tell her, right now. 

Lardo laughs. “You’re schwasted, Shits. But yeah, I love you too. I’m fucking proud of you.” 

Look, Shitty’s pretty drunk, yeah. But he also is totally in love with Lardo. It’s cool if she doesn’t get it right now, he’ll tell her again tomorrow. And then the next day. And the one after that. Forever, basically. 

“I know, Shitty.” Lardo pats his ass, right on the soulmark. It’s fucking awesome. ‘Swawesome. They won the fucking championships! “Parse says hi, and congrats.” 

Parse is playing his own game right now, Shitty remembers. Or maybe that was earlier. It’s still the first round of the playoffs. Right? 

“He won,” Lardo tells him. “Now, let’s maybe get you some water, champ.” 

Later, when the boys have mostly given up the ghost and Lardo has kidnapped him away to her own room, Shitty manages to say, “I really do fucking love you, you know.” 

“You’d fucking better,” Lardo says, and kisses him softly. Shitty falls asleep. His life is so fucking great. 

 

Lardo laughs at his hangover the next morning, but she also brings him Mickey D’s breakfast before she makes him shower. 

If this isn’t true love, Shitty doesn’t know what the fuck is. 

 

May comes crashing in, and graduation with it. Parse and the Aces are making a serious bid for the Cup, all the way to the Conference Finals. From what Shitty can gather, which is honestly mostly from seeing the games on TV, it’s a hard, physical series against the Ducks. 

Parse hasn’t been texting him much. Shitty knows he’s still texting Lardo, which is good. Shitty isn’t going to worry until that peters out. 

“I feel like we should send Bitty to Vegas.” Lardo looks down at her phone and bites her lip. “To take care of Parse and guilt him into eating and sleeping.” 

“What else is he doing?” Shitty asks. 

“Nothing?” Lardo says. “I mean, it sounds like he moved back into Garbo’s guest room because his wife cooks? So that’s something. But he might have just crashed there for the weekend, I can’t tell.” 

“Kent always lives with Garbon after the second round,” Jack says. Shitty looks up. Sure enough, Jack is lurking at the bottom of the stairs. It seems weird for that much dude to be that uncomfortable, Shitty reflects. Like after you hit six foot you should know what to do with your hands. 

Shitty thought that all the boys were out at the lacrosse party, anyway. He and Lardo are heading over after the game. He should have known that Jack was just hanging out alone in his room. 

Weirdo, Shitty thinks fondly. What a fucking weirdo. 

“Didn’t know that,” Lardo says. She pats the cushion next to her on the couch. “Sit down, watch Kent kick Kesler’s ass up and down the rink.” 

That space is way too small, though, no way Jack’s massive ass fits. Shitty scoots Lardo down the couch instead, leaving a seat for Jack on his other side. 

“The problem with the Ducks is that they didn’t just sign Hilary Knight after she practiced with them,” Shitty says. Lardo punches him on the shoulder. Sympathetically, he likes to think. He maybe talks about this too much.

“I read it in an interview,” Jack volunteers, like Shitty never said anything. “My dad sent it to me last season. I guess it’s because they won the Cup when Kent was living with the Garbons, and he’s superstitious or something.” 

There’s a lot going on there, which Shitty will dissect at a later time. Because, “Commercial's over.” 

It’s a weird kind of peace, to sit with his soulmate and best friend, and watch his boyfriend play hockey on TV. Lardo knocks his leg with her knee, like she knows what he’s thinking. Shitty flings his arms over the back of the couch, leaving himself open for cuddles. 

Lardo nestles against him. Jack grumbles and allows Shitty’s arm to remain where it is, barely touching the back of his neck. 

He’ll take it. 

 

Graduation dawns sunny and warm, and Shitty starts panicking. His mom and dad are both going to be here. On opposite sides of the quad, thank you very much, his dad firmly ensconced with the Elder Knights, and his mom planning to sit with the Zimmermanns, but still. This can only end in tears. 

“Tell me something good,” Shitty says to the ceiling. His phone buzzes with a text. 

Bitty’s making waffles, Lardo says. 

“Brah,” Shitty says. 

Downstairs in the kitchen, Bitty is indeed making waffles. There are four types of fresh fruit, homemade whipped cream, and a stunned-looking Jack Zimmermann already assembled. Lardo is stirring something at the counter, wearing Shitty’s boxers and a tank top covered in cartoon cats. Shitty is pretty sure Kent bought it for her. 

His heart totally goes pitter patter. He’s not going to lie. 

“‘Sup, bros?” Shitty greets the kitchen at large. Fuck, it’s like an assembly of his favorite people at Samwell. “Where is everyone?” 

“Ransom and Holster are out to breakfast with their parents, and the frogs have been told to stay away until ya’ll have eaten your fill,” Bitty says. “I don’t want them stealing your graduation breakfast.” 

“Why Eric Bittle,” Shitty says, mostly to see Bitty blush. “Are you playing favorites?” 

Bitty points a wooden spoon at Shitty threateningly. “Just sit down and enjoy your breakfast. I’m so proud of you! Graduation!” 

Shitty sits down. There’s already a mug of coffee ready for him. Life is beautiful. 

Parse couldn’t swing actually coming, but that’s okay. Frankly, Shitty doesn’t know how Jack would handle that, and this is his day as much as anyone’s. Maybe more. Jack was never supposed to go to college, let alone graduate with honors. 

“Brah,” Shitty says, sniffling. He’s getting a little choked up. “I’m going to cheer so fucking much when they call your name. Loud enough to piss you off.” 

“Shut up and eat your waffle,” Jack says. 

 

The ceremony is great. As requested, the Provost only reads Shitty’s first initial and last name, so his rep is intact. Jack wins the award for best male athlete, that beautiful fucker. Lardo gains the round disapproval of Shitty’s grandparents and dad, and is already sharing commiserating looks with his mom, so that’s the cherry on top. 

Lardo’s quiet, though, even at the “Holy Fuck, We Graduated” annual Haus bash. It’s Nursey’s first time making tub juice for everyone. Shitty thinks he needs work, but he clearly chose the right apprentice to pass his recipe down to. 

“Hey,” Shitty says. It’s Ransom’s turn to attempt to take them on for beer pong. Lardo is carrying his ass, he is not denying that, but she is also not gloating nearly enough. “What’s up?” 

“Everything’s going to change,” Lardo says in a small voice. “You’re leaving.” 

And like, not for a while. He’s not moving out of the Haus until he moves into his apartment in Cambridge. Which he still needs to get. But Lardo’s right, too. Things are going to change. They’re already so different from this time last year. They’d never kissed. He was still convinced that if they were going to be together, it would just happen, no assist required. 

Lardo and Kent had never met. 

“Yeah,” Shitty says. “But as Aang said to Katara, you’re my forever girl. We’re solid as a rock, bro.” 

He tugs Lardo close, slips his hand under the back of her shirt. His hand dwarfs the mark on her back, but he rests it there anyway. It might be his imagination, but the skin feels warmer there. At the root chakra. 

“Don’t grope me in public, Knight,” Lardo says, but she says it into his chest, rubbing her nose against the skin there. 

“Really?” Shitty asks, just to make sure. 

“Not really,” Lardo says. 

So he stays like that until Holster and Ransom threaten them with a loss for unlawful pausing. 

“Okay, boys,” Lardo says, pulling away. She picks up the ball and bares her teeth. “Get ready to weep like tiny, angry babies.” 

And God. Shitty is definitely one lucky bastard. 

 

The Aces take it to game seven in the Cup Finals and lose to Detroit. Shitty and Lardo are watching in the Haus, and Lardo gasps and massages her left hand when the final buzzer sounds. 

“Bro,” Shitty says. 

“Shitty,” Lardo says. She’s staring down at her palm now, and she sounds worried when she says, “Shitty, he’s so fucking sad.” 

“His team just lost the Stanley Cup, dude,” Shitty says. “Of course he’s sad.” 

“No, like, fuck. It’s awful. You’re never this fucking sad.” 

Shitty has also never played for such big stakes and lost. If Jack had been really mad at him about Kent, or if Lardo had taken one look at Parse and told Shitty bye, she’s moving on up in the world. Then he would have been that fucking sad. 

“He’ll get better,” Shitty says. “Do you want to call him?” 

“In a minute,” Lardo says. She’s still staring at the TV, where the Red Wings are celebrating. The camera shifts for one second to follow the Aces off the ice, Parse’s jersey disappearing among his teammates. Then it’s back to the Wings, and confetti and stuff. Shitty turns off the TV. 

“He’s probably doing the captain thing,” Shitty agrees. “Like, good effort, men. The speech. You know the speech.” Jack has a pretty good rendition of the speech. 

“An hour,” Lardo decides. “He’ll be done showering and with media stuff in an hour.” 

They have a weird, sad makeout sesh while they’re waiting. But Shitty is kind of distracted. Parse has been so frantic the last two months, the leadup to the playoffs and then the charge through them. 

“We should stop and watch The Legend of Korra instead,” he decides about ten minutes in. 

Lardo nods, relieved. He can feel it on his ass. “Cool. Not that that wasn’t great, but I’m kind of worried.” 

Lardo gets antsier and antsier as the hour deadline crawls towards them. At fifty five minutes, Shitty gives in and gets out his phone. Parse is already in his favorites. 

“Hey.” Parse sounds like he got hit by a truck. 

“Brah,” Shitty says. He hits the button for speaker. “You played fucking ‘swawesome.” 

“Thanks,” Parser says. God, Shitty hopes to hell that he’s never that exhausted. “Yeah, it just wasn’t in the cards this year. The boys played their hearts out. We caught some bad bounces.” 

“We’re not the media, Kent,” Lardo says. She’s clutching Shitty’s hand. 

“Hey, Lardo,” Parse says. “It’s not just media bullshit.” 

“When are you getting back to Vegas?” Lardo asks. “We’ll come out.” 

“Uh, about that,” Parse says. “I’m kind of on the way to the airport? And I’ll be in Boston in like two and a half hours?” 

Shitty is torn between ‘what the fuck’ and ‘thank fucking God.’ They haven’t seen Parse in person since fucking March. They went an entire season, all of spring, without getting to touch him at all. It’s kind of eating at Shitty, to be honest. 

Plus, Lardo relaxes back into the couch when Parse says he’s on the way. Anything that makes Lardo feel better is something that Shitty is fully supportive of.

“So I’ll be in Samwell in like three hours, give or take. Traffic, you know,” Parse says. “You’re at the Haus?”

Strictly speaking, Lardo is living here, but they're not talking about it. Her shit is in boxes all over Jack’s room until Shitty officially moves out. She sleeps in Shitty’s room with him, or occasionally in Jack’s room when she needs alone time, and everything has been totally fan-fucking-tastic. There’s nobody else in the Haus for the summer. It’s just the two of them holed up in here. 

And soon, Parse. 

“Yeah,” Lardo says. “Safe flight. Text me when you land, okay?” 

“Okay,” Parse agrees, soft. “I’ll see you soon.” 

 

Shitty kind of passes out a little bit on the couch before Parse gets there. He’s had a long day, whatever. His internship with a local law firm starts at the crack of dawn. Man was not made to rise before eight A.M. during the summer, is all he’s saying. 

But he wakes up, sort of, to the sound of a knock on the front door. Lardo eases out from underneath him, leaving his head to rest on the couch instead of her lap. Shitty makes a valiant effort to actually wake up. It’s difficult. How does Jack do it every day? And so fucking early. 

Then there’s Lardo and Kent murmuring at the front door, and the solid thunk of what must be a gear bag falling to the floor. 

“You did a good job,” Shitty hears Lardo say. 

“Yeah,” Parse says. “Not good enough, huh? I thought we had it this year.” 

And that kind of statement requires Shitty to join in the hug or whatever’s going down. He hauls himself up from the couch and wanders over. Summer is leaking in through the open door of the Haus, the Massachusetts night air warm and thick. Parse and Lardo are entangled in the doorway, his arms around her, Lardo buried in his chest. 

Shitty envelops the both of them. Being the big one has its advantages. “You played a fucking fantastic game, man.” 

“Yeah.” Parse chuckles, a little wetly. “Can we just--go to bed? I’m so fucking tired.” 

“We can do that,” Lardo says, even though Shitty has some significant doubts about the ability of his shitty double mattress to hold all three of them. Whatever, they’ll squeeze. It’ll be fucking beautiful. 

They take Parse up to bed, lay him down in the sheets. Lardo peels him out of his game day suit. It’s hopelessly wrinkled from the plane, so Shitty just tosses it over his desk chair. Not like Parse is going to be wearing it tomorrow. 

“You don’t want to shave?” Lardo asks. She moves to touch Parse’s playoff beard, which at least is better than last year’s. The deep run gave him time to grow it to a respectable length, the blond two shades darker than the hair on his head. Her hand stops just short of actually making contact.

“Tomorrow,” Kent says, shaking his head. “I just want to sleep.” 

Shitty can relate. At least tomorrow is Saturday, and he doesn’t have to be at work. Maybe they can go to Annie’s for breakfast. 

“Go to sleep, then,” he tells Parse. He slings his arm and leg over Kent’s body, and fucking feels his muscles relax. Lardo puts her head on Parse’s chest, and Shitty was right. This can totally work with all three of them. Sleeping and otherwise. 

 

Lardo wiggles away early in the morning, and Shitty whimpers and gropes for Parse and any remaining warmth. 

“He’s already up,” Lardo says. “I’m going to get coffee and bagels.” 

Shitty has no choice, then, but to wake up as well. He stumbles into the bathroom and finds Parse already in there, surveying his beard tragically. The mirror is still steamy: Kent must have showered. 

Even in the fluorescent bathroom light, Parse is a lot to handle. He’s only wearing boxers, which Shitty approves of both in general, as a lifestyle choice, and for the ogling opportunity it provides.

He opens the blinds and lets the early morning sunshine stream in. Dear god, that’s worse, Kent going golden. Shitty is going to do something untoward to him within the next few hours, he’s totally going to break. 

“Can I borrow your razor, dude? I didn’t pack one, Garbo says it’s bad luck.” Kent shrugs, like it’s no big. Already over losing the Stanley Cup. Bullshit. 

“Mi razor es su razor,” Shitty says, and then has a brilliant fucking idea. It zings into him like a lightening bolt. “Or, you know. I got this straight razor from the grandfather for graduation.” 

Shitty suspects that it was supposed to encourage him to get rid of the ‘stache. The grandparents were not successful there, but it turns out that it’s also fucking awesome. 

“Like in Sweeney Todd? I don’t know how to use one,” Kent says. “I don’t really get a lot of hair unless it’s, you know.” The playoffs. 

“I could,” and Shitty should probably tread carefully here, because this is possibly awakening things within him that will require examination at a later date, “do it for you? I know how.” 

Kent blinks at him. The beard makes it a little harder to read him, but Shitty’s got his number. It’s all in the eyes, bro. “Yeah. If you don’t mind. That would be cool.” 

‘Swawesome. Shitty assembles his shaving kit: soap, mug, brush, razor. He sharpened it yesterday, so they should be good to go. Kent sits on the counter and watches him closely while he whips up the foam, and Shitty feels kind of charged up about it. He’s, like, conscious of his fingers and stuff in ways he usually isn’t, unless he’s using them in very specific ways. 

“I have to get your face,” Shitty says. He swallows. Kent just nods, eyes wide, while Shitty run a towel under the faucet to get it warm and damp, then wets Kent’s beard and neck with it. He shouldn’t feel so nervous about this. He’s had Skype sex with the dude. He’s seen his dick in all its shitty webcam glory. 

“So, now what?” Kent asks. He licks his lips. It’s distracting. 

“Uh, the foam,” Shitty says. “Try not to talk, this stuff tastes rank if it gets in your mouth.” Kent fucking guffaws at that one, and Shitty rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, everything is about cocks with you.” 

“Just certain cocks,” Kent says, but dutifully shuts up when Shitty raises the brush. It’s the work of seconds to spread all the foam over Kent’s face and neck. He just looks up at Shitty with those fucking eyes. Jesus Christ. 

Shitty learned how to do this from an Art of Manliness tutorial video, which was problematic in about a thousand ways, but also clear and concise. It’s different the other way, but familiar enough that Shitty figures it out within a few strokes. He shaves down the side of Kent’s face, scrapes carefully under his jaw. 

“Lips in,” he says when it’s time for the mustache. His voice is hoarse. “Unless you want to level up your look? Twinsies?” 

Kent rolls his eyes and raises his face towards Shitty. Shitty carefully, carefully, shaves off the budding ‘stache. He puts two fingers on Kent’s chin and pushes up, just a little, and Kent goes with it, shows his neck. 

This is the delicate part. Shitty goes slow when he shaves Parse’s neck, over his pulse. Kent takes in a sharp little breath on the last stroke, and for a second Shitty thinks he’s cut him. But no, the skin is pale and whole, just a stray fleck of shaving cream. 

Shitty leans in and kisses him there, brief and soft. Kent breathes that way again, like he needs to get more oxygen, stat. 

When Shitty raises his eyes, he sees Lardo in the mirror, leaning against the doorway of the bathroom. 

“Hey,” he says. Lardo smiles at them. 

“Hey,” she says back. “That was very homoerotic. Just so you know.” 

Shitty is aware, thank you very much. Kent huffs, embarrassed, and leans forward to hide his face in Shitty’s shoulder. Shitty’s hand comes up automatically to cradle the back of Kent’s head, his fingers winding through all that blond hair. It’s still damp from his shower. He smells like Shitty’s shampoo. 

“Breakfast,” Kent whines. “Can there be breakfast, please?” 

“Rinse your face,” Lardo says. “There is definitely breakfast.” 

Shitty is feeling pretty excellent. He showers and puts on new shorts, and when he goes to join Lardo and Parse for breakfast he finds them sitting out on the front lawn, on the outside couch. Parse is wearing Shitty’s shorts, which are too tight across the ass on him, and one of his undershirts, which is too long but also pulls on the shoulders. It’s a good look, is what Shitty’s saying.

“Nice choice,” Shitty says. He plops onto the couch and grabs a bagel from the box on the ground. Lox, score. “The salmon ones are the best.”

“You are such a frat boy,” Lardo says. But Lardo’s basically the biggest frat guy on campus, so Shitty knows it’s not a shot. If she could find salmon shorts in her size she’d be all over them. 

Dude, they should do that. Then they could match. 

“Whatever you are thinking is a bad idea,” Lardo says, but she’s totally going to be into it when he gives her the shorts. Shitty knows. 

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” Shitty asks. He has his own vague plans, which mostly revolve around finally having Lardo and Parse in the same place at the same time, and having gotten the sex negotiations done with over Skype months ago. Not that he won’t be checking again, but he has a working knowledge. 

“I bought stuff for sangria,” Lardo says. “The guy at the liquor store judged me hardcore for coming in this early. We also are allowed to play Settlers of Catan since nobody’s here to rat on us.” 

This is why Lardo is in charge. 

 

Settlers of Catan turns into Risk, and Parse turns out to be a sneaky little shit, making alliances and breaking them at a moment’s notice. He also holes up in Australia and holds it fiercely. 

“This was the only way to beat Zimms,” Kent says, when Shitty has wasted basically his entire army trying to break into Indonesia. Lardo is attacking him on his western front, and he is doomed. “He would get so fucking mad, it was hilarious. It was easier with more people, though. He’d get distracted looking for threats, and boom. Total domination.” 

Sangria has turned out to be the best plan ever, in Shitty’s opinion. Not only is he feeling loose and buzzed, but Parse is actually talking about shit without getting all tense and unhappy. 

“I give,” Shitty says, when it’s clear that it’s going to come down to Parse and Lardo each owning half the world. He sprawls out on his back on the picnic blanket and closes his eyes. They’re in the backyard of the Haus, basking in the sun. “You have defeated me. I’ll go be a government in exile, hide out in Stockholm until I can rise again.” 

“I own all of Europe,” Lardo says. “My secret police would track you down.” Fucking merciless. But then there’s a shadow over Shitty’s face, and she’s leaning down to kiss him, so it all balances out. 

Thank fucking god that they talked about buzzed sex stuff already. This is the best. Lardo is a slight weight above him, around him, and Shitty distantly hears Kent say, “Fuck.” 

Then it all gets even better, moving slow and syrupy. Campus is deserted enough that Lardo lets them take off her clothes, and Kent does too, and then Shitty doesn’t know where to look first. Kent and Lardo are laying on their sides, making out, Kent’s hand slipping between them until Lardo makes a hungry, happy noise against his mouth. 

Shitty kisses Kent’s shoulder and gets Parse pushing his ass back against him in return, making sparks fly across Shitty’s vision.

Shitty gropes blindly for Lardo’s shorts and digs in the pocket, and yes, his soulmate is a genius. A sex genius. There’s two single-use packets of lube, and Shitty tears one open and slick up his fingers. 

Kent makes a low noise when Shitty traces around his hole, not dipping in yet. He knows from Skype stuff that Parse likes this, but it’s polite to ask.

“Come on,” Parse grunts. He’s just panting against Lardo’s mouth, now. She looks at Shitty over Kent’s shoulder, eyes bright and mischievous. 

“Do you think you can get him to come like that?” 

Shitty is more than prepared to find out. Kent clenches around his first finger, and then relaxes, letting Shitty pump it in and out, slowly. He shivers, and Shitty has to lean over him to kiss Lardo. 

“Don’t neglect our girl, Parser,” Shitty says, because Kent’s hands have stilled on Lardo’s waist, where he’s just clutching her like a lifeline. 

“Can we,” Kent says. “Up, up.” 

Lardo gets it first, and eases Kent onto his back. Shitty moves with them, takes his finger out of Kent. Parse makes a wounded noise and draws his knees up and apart, lets Shitty settle there between his legs. Lardo moves to straddles Kent’s shoulders, and laughs breathlessly when Kent licks up into her, straining to reach.

“Oh,” she says. “Fuck. Kent.” 

Shitty’s dick is hard in his shorts. How exactly did he become the most clothed person here? He shucks his shorts and boxers while he watches Lardo ride Kent’s face. The second his hands are free, Shitty pushes back into Parse’s ass with two fingers. Parse jolts under his hands, towards him. Shitty strokes his hip, soothing him down. 

“You’re okay,” he says. Kent’s dick is right there, hard and flushed. In front of him, Shitty’s mark on Lardo’s back is swirling and delighted, the golden threads seeming to glow. 

Sometimes Shitty can’t believe his luck. 

Lardo comes first, whining and grinding onto Kent’s face. She pulls off and collapses onto the blanket, sweaty and exhausted. Shitty’s working on finger three, and Kent takes advantage of the absence of Lardo’s weight to struggle into a sit-up and grab for Shitty. 

Shitty is totally down with that. He leans forward, lets Parse cling to his shoulders, and kisses him. Lardo is tangy and familiar on Kent’s tongue. 

“Come on, Knight,” Parse says when they break apart. He’s panting, eyes wild. “Are you going to fuck me or not?” 

And Jesus fuck, Shitty doesn’t need to be asked twice. Before he can even think, Lardo’s there with the assist, pressing a condom into his hand. She’s aware now, recovered from her orgasm, and somehow moved up to kneel next to them. 

She kisses Shitty and says, “Don’t make him wait, dude.” 

Shitty is all over that. He rips the condom open with his teeth, which takes practice to do right, thank you very much, and rolls it on. Kent makes a beauty of a noise when Shitty pushes in, open and hurt and desperate all at once. He’s tight and hot inside, even through the condom, gripping Shitty like he never wants to let go. 

Shitty bites his lip and thinks about all the footnotes his thesis required. Though some divine blessing, he doesn’t come immediately and embarrass the hell out of himself. 

“Fuck,” Lardo says. She reaches down to Kent’s cock, and wraps her hand around it. Shitty can see her soulmark wrapped around Parse’s dick, and it makes a beautiful picture. He thrusts forward, experimentally. It’s the first time he’s ever fucked a guy. 

“Damn,” Kent says, breathless. “Just--that, yeah. More.”

Shitty does his best, puts his back in it, etc. He moves slow at first, until Parse is whining and grabbing at him, and then he thrusts in as hard as he can. There’s some matter of triangulation to hit whatever angle makes Kent go wild, whimpering and bucking underneath him. Through it all, Lardo strokes him, first slow then fast, matching Shitty’s thrusts. 

It’s fucking gorgeous, simpatico, Shitty thinks. He and Lardo are working better together than they ever have, making Parse break into little pieces between them. It’s ‘swawesome. 

“Please,” Parse whimpers. “Please, I need it.”

“Come on, Parse,” Lardo says. “Give it up. Give it to us. I want to see.” 

And then Kent does, comes into Lardo’s hand and all over himself and Shitty both, a noise like a sob wrenched out of him, and Shitty’s brain basically goes offline. A man can only be asked to perform for so long. He grabs the back of Parse’s thighs for leverage and fucks in deep. He shoves forward once, twice, three times, and comes like a goddamn freight train. 

He has to stay there for a second, just breathing. When he can think again, Shitty finds himself collapsed onto Kent’s chest. Lardo is stroking his hair. Shitty feels great down to his bones, every inch of him basically high-fiving all the other parts. Threesomes are fucking awesome. 

He pulls out glacially, but even still Kent winces a little. Shitty strokes down his side in apology, and then throws himself on the blanket to rest, spent. 

“Dude,” he says. “You two should come with a warning label.” 

Lardo laughs, and Kent joins her after a second. As spent as he is, Shitty manages to smile and turn onto his side. Lardo’s spooning Kent, curled up tight against his back. They are fucking nice to look at, is all Shitty is saying. Especially with the summer sun shining down on them. 

Whatever, Shitty’s allowed to get sappy. These are his people, dude. 

“Ten out of ten,” Shitty says. “Would fuck again.” He holds out his hand for a fist bump. 

Lardo and Kent both move to return it at the same time, and Shitty feels like his heart will burst, it’s so full. This is the only place he wants to be. 

“Nap?” Lardo suggests. 

“Clothes,” Kent counters. 

“Bogus,” Shitty says. He’s already closing his eyes, exhausted. He shifts closer to Lardo and Kent. The feel of both of them is already familiar. It’s fucking awesome. “Clothes are bogus. Naps, however.” 

He falls asleep to the sound of their laughter. It’s ‘swawesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thank you all for sticking with me for this whole thing! I suspect that there will be a coda of sorts about Jack Zimmermann and How To Be A Normal Human coming up.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(hold on) when you get love [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9100567) by [Emlemony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emlemony/pseuds/Emlemony)




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